


Fifty One Weeks

by unbrokensaviorwithperfecthair



Category: The Purge: Election Year (2016)
Genre: Adventure, F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-08-10 20:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 36,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7859623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unbrokensaviorwithperfecthair/pseuds/unbrokensaviorwithperfecthair
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In one week, it will be March 22, 2041.  Charlie -now President Roan- has ended The Purge, but she and Leo aren't expecting the night to go smoothly.  Could NFFA supporters actually be more violent than in previous years just to spite the new President?  Leo hopes that this year, Charlie will listen and go to a damn bunker.  In the meantime, all he can do is try to calm her fears, though he's starting to think he's more worried about her than she is herself.  She's the only person in the world who could have a huge target on her back and still be more concerned with making sure everyone else in the country is safe before she focuses on her own security.</p><p>**NOTE**: currently working on chapter 15.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 3/15/41

**Author's Note:**

> As you may have gathered from the summary, this story takes place a week before Purge Night in 2017 (one year since the events in the movie). As it stands now, this could be left a one-shot or it can be made into a multi-chapter fic. I'm willing and happy to do the latter if there's interest in it from you (the readers).
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own The Purge: Election Year and I do not profit from this story.
> 
> Happy reading!

Heavy footfalls entering her office cause Charlie to look up from her computer, fingers freezing on the keyboard, and do that smirk-smile thing that that makes Leo’s cold heart thaw ever so slightly.

“You were supposed to have been out of here an hour ago, Leo,” she says, leaning back in her chair and adjusting her glasses.

“As long as the president’s in the office, so am I,” he responds.

“You’re not required to be here, there’s plenty of other secret service agents on the premises.  Your job is to stay with me during the day.”

“Maybe my definition of ‘day’ is different than yours,” Leo quips.

“Is that so?” One of her eyebrows arches up, earning her a chuckle from Leo.  He simply shrugs noncommittally in response, so she saves the file she had been working on and stands up, stretching her arms above her head.  Her shirt rides up and a sliver of pale flesh stands out against the navy-blue shirt and black pants combo she has going on.  He drags his gaze away from her stomach and back up to her eyes. 

 

He thinks he sees the barest hints of a blush creeping to her cheeks as she turns her back to him, presumably to hide her reaction to his scrutiny.

“You want a drink?” She calls over her shoulder.  She doesn’t wait for him to respond; Leo walks into the Oval Office and takes a seat at the coffee table where she places a tray on top.

“I’ll sit while you drink,” he finally says.

“Relax, Leo,” she smiles and tucks a strand of blonde behind her ear, “it’s just seltzer.  I know you too well to try to get you to have a real drink while you’re on the job, even if you’re not technically on the job.”  She cocks her head for a moment then continues, “although, you _could_ loosen up a little bit so a little alcohol might not hurt.”

He plasters mock indignation on his face before blurting, “and how am I supposed to loosen up when the person I’m in charge of protecting refuses to listen to basic security protocols?”

“Hey, I warned you that I thought they were stupid protocols, so you can’t totally blame me for ignoring them,” she shoots back good naturedly.

“They’re there for a reason,” he replies.  She can’t seem to come up with a good rebuttal so she simply ‘hmmphs’ and turns her gaze out the window.  At first he thinks she’s mad ‒it isn’t often that one wins an argument against Charlene Roan‒ but the look on her face softens and he realizes she’s dropped her guard, another rarity.  “What’re you thinking about?” He asks quietly.  The staff is still milling about despite it being 6:30 in the evening on a Friday, and he knows neither of them wants these private moments to be broadcast to whoever happens to be walking by (when Charlie told everyone on her staff that she had an open door policy if they ever needed anything, she had meant it literally).

“Nothing,” she says as her lips turn upright again and the twinkle in her eye returns.  She hesitated for a split second, though, and Leo knows she wasn’t thinking about nothing.  He decides to combine two tactics that often worked for him in interrogations back when he was in the police department: waiting and coaxing.  He lets the silence settle between them for a few beats before he says,

“You know, I don’t worry about you _quite_   as much as I used to.  Don’t get me wrong, you still damn near give me heart attacks sometimes, but… I used to have to watch out for any and every threat.  Now, if by some chance a crazy guy with a knife gets passed my security team when you decide to go out into the crowds, I know you’re not helpless.  At first I thought those self-defense lessons were an awful idea _especially_   because I wouldn’t be your teacher, but I have to say, I’m glad you did them. I mean, you couldn’t take a professional hitman, but some pissed off average Joe you could handle.  You’re pretty kickass.”

She laughs at the last sentence, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes.  It’s March ‒fifty one weeks since that Purge Night‒ and they’re both on edge.  In exactly one week they’re expecting major political and civil unrest since she’d officially ended the annual Purge (it was actually the first thing Charlie did once she’d been elected and sworn in).  Leo thinks that’s what’s getting to her tonight.  If he’s honest with himself, it’s nagging at the back of his mind, too.

They haven’t really talked about what happened that night.  A comment here or there, but nothing substantial ‒he’s too guarded and she’s too focused on her work‒ and as Charlie had put it one morning nearly two weeks later, she didn’t have the luxury of getting to fall apart and dwell on the numerous assassination attempts.  Usually Leo’s fine with not doing the whole ‘talking about our feelings’ thing because he’s not good with both the listening and talking parts.  But, well, Charlie is different.  For her, he thinks he’d do anything, even open up.

He reaches forward and puts his hand on top of her smaller one, earning himself a small, genuine smile for his efforts.  “Have you talked to anyone about… what happened?” He asks.

She makes a sound somewhere between an amused chuckle and a snort.  “No.”

“It might help,” he offers.

“Do you know that the day I got sworn in, one of the first things certain members of the Cabinet suggested I do was get a psychologist.  I kid you not, their exact words were ‘this is a very stressful job and we think you’d benefit from seeking professional emotional help during your tenure as President of the United States’. To my knowledge, no other President has been told to see a shrink.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t see one,” he says.

“Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean I need to talk about my feelings constantly,” she exclaims, frustration breaking through her calm exterior.  She gets up and retrieves a bottle of whiskey.

“Do you think that’s a‒” she cuts him off with one look and he holds up his hands in surrender.  Charlie pours a generous amount of the liquid into her now empty glass of seltzer and downs it in one gulp.  “I wasn’t implying anything,” he says once he’s sure she’s calmed down some.

“I know you weren’t,” she says softly.  “I’m sorry for yelling.”

“It’s okay,” he says, pausing for a moment and then adding, “you’ve been so strong considering everything… Purge Night, especially in this past year, I just… want to make sure you’re okay.  I don’t know if I ever told you, but I’m really impressed with how you’ve held up.  No one besides us knows about everything that happened that night, and I figure you deserve some praise.”

She sighs and leans back in the leather chair, and he can tell the whiskey is taking effect.

“I hate feeling powerless, and that… that’s how I felt when my family was killed.  I vowed to never put myself in a position where I’d feel that way again, but that clearly didn’t work out.  I felt safe with you ‒well, as safe as you can feel with people actively trying to kill you‒ and that was great and all, but… I hated feeling out of control because there was nothing I could really do.” Charlie pauses, and leans forward.  Leo watches patiently as she rests her forearms on her knees and bites her bottom lip ‒little tells he’s only just begun to pick up on in the last few months.  He knows there’s more she wants to say but is debating whether or not she _should_.  The whiskey she’d downed a few minutes ago seems to tip the scales in favor of elaboration.  “When I was strapped to that chair,” she continues quietly yet angrily, “all I could do was glare at those bastards and not give them the satisfaction of seeing my fear.  And the _entire time_ , I was just waiting for you to come save me.  It was infuriating.”

Leo is a man of action, not words, and he really doesn’t know what to do except reach out and grasp her hands.

“You weren’t powerless, Charlie,” he finally says realizing he needs to say _something_   after all she’d just said.  His voice is gruff and gravelly, but she knows he means everything he’s saying.  “ _You_   were the most powerful person in that room… the NFFA had to resort to trying to kill you in order to keep _their_   power.  And you certainly aren’t helpless.  There are many words I could use to describe you, but helpless isn’t one of them.”

Her bottom lip quivers for a moment before she bites it, then gives him a watery smile.

“Thank you,” she whispers, unable to trust her voice.  He squeezes her hands again then rises out of his chair to put their tray of drinks back where they belong, giving her time to compose herself.

“I’m thinking we should get you back to your room.”  He watches as her eyes drift over to her laptop, which is sitting on her desk.  “Charlie, it’s late, and you’ve had a drink, so even if it wasn’t late, you shouldn’t be doing important presidential stuff right now.”

She presses her lips in a thin line and nods in consent.  “Alright.”

He reaches out and helps pull her out of the chair.  “Do you want to take your shoes off?” he asks, gesturing to her heels.

“I’m not drunk, Leo,” she states as if it was obvious.

“I know.  They just look uncomfortable.”

“I’m fine,” she laughs, and it’s music to his ears.  They pass Agent Todd on their way out of the Oval Office and acknowledge her with a nod.  The pair run into a few more staff members as they walk through the halls.  When they reach Charlie’s room, she whispers, “stay?”

For the first time in his life, Leo Barnes is shocked.  He stands there for what feels like an eternity but in actuality is only a few seconds before sputtering, “what!?”

She simply smirks, then says, “Leo, I was asking if you would like to have a sleepover.  I understand children do it all the time, I didn’t think it was a difficult question.”

He grins, both at her dry sense of humor and at his own lack of tact.  She’d stared at him in the past, when he’d walk her to her room, like she’d wanted him to stay, but he hadn’t had the guts to ask her if she wanted him to.  Now, though, he knows for sure.

“I’d love to,” he answers.

“It’s going to be a rough week,” she sighs as she slips under the covers, seemingly too tired to change out of her clothes and into pajamas.  He now wishes he’d checked the proof label on the whiskey.  When she realizes he’s still standing in the middle of her bedroom, she smirks in the dim light and rolls onto her back.  “I don’t bite,” she says quietly, pulling back the sheets and comforter on the other side of the bed and gesturing for him to get in.  He shifts on his feet for a few seconds before sighing and doing as asked.

“Are you sure you’re okay with th‒”

“I asked you to stay, didn’t I?”

“Yes, but‒”

“Leo,” she rolled onto her left side to face him.  “I am _more_   than okay with this.”

He nods a little and laughs.  “Okay,” he says, snaking an arm around her waist and holding her.  “We’re going to get through this week.”

“I know,” she tucks her head onto his shoulder.  “I just…” she sighs, “I worry.  About my staff getting hurt… about _you_   getting hurt…”

“Hey,” he shifts so he can look her in the eye, “I’m not going anywhere.”

She decides not to mention that on Purge Night, if she hadn’t picked up a four by four and hit Uncle Sam over the head with it, neither of them would be here right now.

Charlie nods, and he can see her shelving this conversation for a later time when they both aren’t so tired.

“Goodnight, Leo,” she says, snuggling closer.

“‘Night,” he responds, pulling her in closer.

For the first night in fifty one weeks, they both get a full night’s sleep.


	2. 3/16/41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers, and thanks for all of your feedback! It means the world to me and I'm really glad I've been able to interact with you guys. I just have a couple of things to get out of the way to make sure this story is as non-confusing as it can be:
> 
> 1\. I did not see The Purge: Anarchy but from what I understand, Leo Barnes remained unnamed and was only referred to as "The Sergeant" and almost killed his son's murderer on Purge Night, but chose not to. For this story, those events still happened. He did almost take a life on Purge Night, which is why he wanted to ritual to end, and that is how he ended up being Charlie's head of security. Anything else from his past that was mentioned in the second installment of the franchise will not be included in this story because I know nothing about it. Because of that, I will craft my own backstory of sorts for Leo that may or may not be canon compliant depending on whether or not my backstory is the same as Anarchy's was. Therefore, any similarities beyond the aforementioned near-killing is coincidence.
> 
> 2\. Italicized text means the scene is a flashback.
> 
> 3\. This story takes place in the future during the week leading up to what would be the annual Purge Night, except Charlie has already banned it. Each chapter will, roughly, be one day. I will denote the date as the chapter title, but knowing the date is not at all crucial for understanding the chapter's events.
> 
> 4\. Damn Elizabeth Mitchell and her ability to confuse the hell out of me when it comes to her characters (I mean this as a compliment). I don't ever feel like I have a good grasp of the characters she plays when it comes time to write for them, and Charlie is no exception. I feel as though I can easily get inside Leo's head and write him, but I'm having a harder time with Charlie. Feedback on my characterization of either of these characters would be very much appreciated. I am also going to create my own backstory for Charlie as well because all we've seen of her past is that her family was murdered on Purge Night. There shouldn't be any continuity issues on that front because we really don't know anything about her past aside from the murder.
> 
>  
> 
> Sorry for all the words and if you actually read them all, thank you, because my hope is that they will help you to better understand the story.
> 
> Disclaimer: I still do not own The Purge: Election year or its characters and I am not profiting from this work.

Leo awakens to bright light filtering through a large window… a window he doesn’t recognize.  Come to think of it, he’s pretty sure these aren’t his sheets, either, and there’s a warm body next to‒

Charlie.

 

The previous night comes back to him, the sunlight breaking up the haze surrounding his memories.  Charlie is in bed.  Next to him.

The President of the United States is in the same bed as him.  He panics for all of five seconds before realizing he curtains hadn’t been drawn the night before and he isn’t in the mood to find his face in the tabloids tomorrow morning when he goes to the store after his run.  He carefully untangles his limbs from Charlie’s, pads over to the window, and pulls the red velvety fabric closed as quietly as he can.

She isn’t happy living in the White House, he knows.  The cleaning staff, chefs, and other forms of help aren’t what she wants, though they aren’t unappreciated.  She’d told him, one month after being sworn in, that she’d wanted to go _home_. 

 

* * *

 

 

_Leo knocks on Charlie’s bedroom door, frowning when she doesn’t answer.  He bangs on the door again, this time a little more insistently.  He relaxes a bit when he finally hears footsteps shuffling closer, but immediately feels his heart start to race again when she opens the wooden door and his hazel eyes meet her red-rimmed and puffy ones.  She reaches out and yanks him into her room before slamming the door shut.  She then proceeds to sit on the bed and swing her legs slowly.  She’s tall, but the bed is raised because that’s how past Presidents have wanted it, and her feet don’t quite touch the ground.  It’s the most vulnerable he’s ever seen her, and it scares the shit out of him.  He does a quick survey of the room, but the only threat he finds is a half empty bottle of Malibu._

_“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly and prays that his voice sounds comforting._

_“It’s been a month,” she says, words slightly slurred and voice nasally and hoarse from the crying._

_“It has,” he nods, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable because he is not at all good at this.  He’s also fairly certain she wouldn’t be letting him ‒or anyone‒ see her in this state if she was sober, and he doesn’t want things to get awkward between them because of what they’re doing right now._

_“I’ve been living here for a month,” she repeats, as if he isn’t getting it.  Which he isn’t, so it’s fine by him.  “And before that, I was in an apartment because my house got blown up ‒or wait, I think it was the fire that made it unsavag… unsalvageable,” she stumbles over her words, her tongue feeling too big for her mouth and her brain too fuzzy to think clearly. “Eight months in an apartment that wasn’t my own.  And my house?  That place hadn’t been_ home _since my family was murdered.  I haven’t been_ home _in so long, Leo,” her voice breaks, and she more or less manages to bring her hands up to her face as she tries to stifle her sobs._

_Hesitantly, Leo reaches around her shaking shoulders and slings one arm around her back._

_“I’m sorry about your house, I just uh… needed a backup plan that I knew would work,” he says, trailing off for a beat as her head makes its way to his shoulder._

_“Oh, I’m not blaming you, I’m just… babbling,” she frowns, “I don’t babble.”_

_“Apparently you do, when you’re drunk,” he points to the bottle sitting on her dresser.  She sighs and takes a few moments to gather her thoughts._

_“I was upset,” she states as if it weren’t obvious, and he fights the urge to laugh._

_“I figured,” he says instead._

_“I don’t like living here.  I’ve been fighting so hard for the last month to push the anti-Purge legislature through Congress, and it finally went through today.  Up until now, I haven’t had a chance to realize where I am.  Earlier I thought about bringing pictures and decorations and family heirlooms from my house to here, but then I remembered it blew up.”_

_Leo’s gaze shifts to her nightstand, where she displays a framed picture of her mother, father, brother, and herself all smiling at the camera on what appears to be a family picnic.  He knows it’s the only picture she has left of them because it was the only personal item she’d kept in her office as Senator.  The regal-richness of this bedroom hits him in full force ‒the raised bed, heavy curtains, the crazy high thread count of the sheets‒ none of this is her own.  She didn’t choose it, didn’t have any say in it.  She’d simply been instructed to move in.  She still has the one bedroom apartment on the outskirts of D.C. for when she is no longer President, but even that place gives off a sterile hospital feel; the walls are white and decorations are few and far between, and certainly not personalized ‒just some knickknacks she’d find on the occasional shopping trip._

_“We could redo this room,” he offers, pleased with himself for coming up with what he thinks is a perfectly good solution._

_“What?”_

_“Yeah, we could order some new bedding, maybe even a whole new frame… paint the walls, maybe put in new flooring.  Or just get a whole new bedroom set, bureau and all.”_

_She’s smiling widely at him and nearly knocks him onto his back with the force of the hug she envelops him in._

 

* * *

 

They haven’t gotten around to redoing the room yet, and he wonders if it would be a good thing to do this week to keep her mind off of things.

But, he has more pressing matters to deal with first… like how to sneak out of her room without being seen.

He also wonders if he should wake her up.  He decides against it, figuring she’d only asked him to stay because of the whiskey.  With any luck, he’ll slip out and she won’t remember a thing.

He fixes his tie and smooths his button down shirt the best he can and puts his shoes back on.  He’ll go down to his office, change into the spare clothes he keeps there, and work on his plan for March 22nd.

 

* * *

 

His plan goes perfectly until noon, when he sees a head of blonde hair walk into his office and stand in the middle of his carpet until he finally looks up.

“Can I help you, President?”

Charlie gives him a look (she’s told him on more than one occasion to call her by her first name, but he chooses to address her formally because it annoys her) and he leans back in his chair with a sigh.

“You know what this week is, I need to figure some things out,” he says.

“You left,” she says without preamble, stalking up to his desk and leaning on it, putting her face inches from his.  It takes Leo a lot of self-control to keep his eyes on hers and _not_   on the cleavage that he has a fantastic view of.  “I asked you to stay,” she continues angrily, “and when I woke up, you weren’t there.  Do you have any idea how hard it was for me to ask you to?  So you can imagine my humiliation to find out you left as soon as I fell asleep because you didn’t actually want to stay, but only did so because you didn’t want to say ‘no’.  Which, by the way,  Leo, I’m a big girl, I can handle someone saying ‘no’ to me‒”

“I left because I thought you only asked because you’d had a drink,” he cuts her off, wanting to put a stop to the crazy train before it gets too far from the station.  She deflates a bit, steps back, but doesn’t sit down.  He can still see the anger, can practically feel it radiating off of her, and he wonders why this is such a big deal to her ‒very few things can get this much of a rise out of her, and those few things generally involve some form of injustice.  “I didn’t want you to wake up and… I don’t know… I wasn’t sure if you’d meant to ask me to stay, you know, cause of the alcohol.”

She looks genuinely surprised, and he resists the urge to smirk.  She starts pacing, and he knows she’s sorting out her thoughts.

“I didn’t want to be alone,” she says after a few moments.  He wants to say ‘no shit’, but decides that that’s probably not the best thing to say right now.  Instead, he crosses his arms across his chest and puts his feet up on the desk.  He already knows this is going to be one of those conversations that he needs to seem nonchalant for (though if it’s for himself or for her, he doesn’t know).  “Do you remember that night?” she asks slowly, keeping her eyes focused on the painting on the wall.

“The night you told me to never mention again?” She nods, and he continues.  “Yeah.”  He blows out a breath, plants his feet back on the floor.  “Yeah, it’s kind of hard to forget your secretary running up to me, saying you’ve shut your phone off and no one can find you, and you yanking me into your room to find you drunk off your ass and just this side of a complete and total meltdown.”  Her gaze moves from the picture to her lap, and he wonders if he’s said a little too much.  “You scared the shit out of me, Charlie,” he says quietly, hoping it’ll cancel out any new anger he may have just caused.  He realizes she’d closed the door when she had come in, and the fact that he didn’t notice sooner scares him.  This is not the week for him to start slipping.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie says quietly, her eyes flicking up to meet his for a split second before looking down to her lap again.  “Scaring you wasn’t my intention.  I didn’t think anyone would be looking for me, never mind find me… I knew if I didn’t let you in you’d just break down the door, so I figured I’d do things the easy way.”

“I’m glad you did it the easy way, I’d hate to have to break down such a beautiful door,” he smiles.

“God, please do.  It’s so ornate, not at all my taste,” she smiles back, grateful for the humor.

“I know you’re worried about how things will be this week, and I know that’s why you asked me to stay last night, and I was thinking… maybe we could look through catalogs to start picking out things to redo your room with?  We can start with the door right now if you’d like, I’ve got my sturdy shoes on.”

“That… no, that’s okay,” she laughs, then turns serious.  “Thank you, Leo…for everything…for staying last night‒”

“What are you, giving me a heads up before handing in your resignation?”

“I appreciate it,” she finishes.  “And no, I’m not resigning.  I just want you to know that I _am_   appreciative, even if I don’t always come across as such.”

“I’m just doing my job,” he replies.  She gives him a look, the one that says ‘that isn’t the whole story but I won’t push you on it’.

“What if people start killing on the 22nd?” She asks, gets up from the chair, and starts pacing again.

“The authorities will deal with those who are committing crimes,” he assures her.

“People could kill and maim and torture in _protest of me_ , Leo,” she sighs and rubs her temples.  “Any killing due to political unrest from here on out is on me, not on the idiots who decided having a Purge Night would be a good idea.”

“Charlie, that isn’t on you,” Leo says.  “It is solely the fault of those who choose to commit those acts.  You aren’t telling them to do so.  You’re just trying to stop it, and you have.”

“I can assure you that in six days, people aren’t going to be hugging and preaching about love.”

“No, but… people don’t do those things on regular days, either,” he points out.  He can tell she still isn’t convinced, so he adds, “Look.  If you _didn’t_   end Purge Night, there would be a lot more killing happening on the 22nd and the people doing it wouldn’t be facing any charges.  At least now, if people do kill, they can be prosecuted and justice can be served.”

She seems satisfied with this ‒for now‒ and opens the door.  “I have a meeting in fifteen minutes that I have to get ready for, but… I’ll see you later?”

“Of course,” he nods.  “I’m going to work on a preliminary security plan for the 22nd and run it by you tonight over dinner?”

“Sounds good,” she smiles.  He returns it, and with that, Charlie closes the door with a soft ‘click’.

Leo sighs and leans back in his chair.  He can’t shake the feeling that even though she lives in the safest, most secure building in the country, that something’s going to happen.


	3. 3/17/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As March 22nd grows nearer, Leo and Charlie's tempers flare as they both try to cope with their demons alone. They soon realize the only way to conquer their dark pasts is to do so together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and happy fall! I now it's not technically fall yet, but still... Halloween! Thanksgiving! Pumpkins! Apples! Okay I'm done...
> 
> The boxing scene was inspired partly but a similar scene in "V", so I can't take all the credit for it. I know this chapter took longer for me to post, but it's longer in length, so... fair trade?
> 
> I still don't own The Purge: Election Year.

Leo nods to the security guard standing outside the basement gym and swipes his card.  The little red light flashes green and the door unlocks, allowing him to step into the cool yet humid air of the large, spacey workout area.  Charlie’s always been a runner, she’d told him one night at dinner (they eat together almost every night, something else that should scare Leo but doesn’t).  He’d seen all the trophies and ribbons from her high school track days at her house before he’d blown it up.  After her family had been murdered, running had become the one thing that’d kept her sane.  In the months after the Purge Night she and Leo spent together, he’s watched her take a liking to boxing.

And he’s certainly not complaining.

Lately, it’s been her go-to activity when she needs to blow off steam and Leo much prefers that to her running around the streets of D.C. (even though he’s always been by her side when she’d gone for runs).  And while it makes his life easier to have her inside the White House, he won’t lie that he likes this edgier, more kickass Charlie.  It makes him feel weird things he hasn’t felt since his ex-wife left him.  _That_ , though, that scares him.  He watches her draw her right arm back, muscles taut in preparation to send it flying forward into the bag, but instead she drops it, turns around, and smiles at him.

“Hey,” she says breathlessly.  Wisps of blonde hair are sticking to her sweaty forehead, and her chest is glistening with sweat.  Leo groans, wishing he’d taken his suit jacket off before entering the room ‒it’s air conditioned but it still feels much too hot (he ignores the fact that it’s probably not the temperature that’s making him flush).

He nods at her and says, by way of greeting, “you stopped dropping your left hand, that’s good.”

She grins at the praise and begins unstrapping the gloves.  “So what brings you down here?” she asks.

He shrugs, “figured I’d walk you to dinner.”

She throws the gloves onto the bench and looks up at the clock.  “This late already?  Huh.  I don’t usually lose track of time.”

“What time did you get down here?” Leo asks as he hands her a bottle of water from the fridge.

“3:30,” she answers and begins sipping from the bottle.  He resists the urge to frown.  It’s definitely not like her to lose track of an hour and a half.  Fifteen minutes here and there, maybe, but ninety is something to be worried about.  Charlie caps the water again once it’s half drained.  Clearly she hadn’t taken a break to rehydrate, either, in those ninety minutes.  He does it all the time: gets in a headspace where he can take all his anger out on the bag and forgets about everything around him ‒time and hydration included‒ and knows that’s what’s happened to her today.  “My meeting got out early,” she says when he doesn’t reply right away.

“So you decided to beat the shit out of a punching bag with your newly found spare time?” He smiles.

“Something like that,” she replies coolly, nodding to the same security guard Leo had passed on his way in.

“Something’s bothering you,” he blurts as they make their way into the elevator.

“Leo, I’m fine,” she sighs and pushes the _2_ button.  He adjusts his jacket and wonders why the elevator is taking so goddamn long.  They’re just going up two floors.  He reaches forward and jams his finger in the button again.  “That’s not going to make it go any faster.”  She does the smirk-smile thing again.  His heart flip-flops (or maybe it’s his stomach ‒he’s not sure‒ and blames it on the fact that he’s hungry because that was definitely his stomach because his heart doesn’t flip-flop).

The elevator dings and she rolls her eyes when he sticks one arm out, ushering her off.

“I’m going to change, I’ll be five minutes,” she says as she suddenly veers off toward her quarters.  “You go, I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

“I’ll come wi‒”

“Leo, _go_ ,” she sounds almost irritated and he knows enough to do what she wants ‒if he was up for a fight, he’d argue, but he’s not sure what he’d do if they got into an argument right now (smash his lips against hers crosses his mind) so he presses his lips into a thin line instead and keeps on course to the kitchen.

As soon as she’s in her room, Charlie slams the ridiculously ornate door shut and leans her back against it.  She closes her eyes and focuses on her breathing, tries to ignore the warmth gathering in her stomach.  She remembers this feeling, this warmth, from her teenage years.

 

* * *

 

_“We can visit each other lots,” Brad says as he wraps eighteen year old Charlie into his strong arms ‒the result of being Lincoln High’s star quarterback. He can feel her nod and sniffle against his chest._

_“You’re going to Penn State and I’ll be in Cambridge,” she says, pulling back long enough to speak without her words getting jumbled in his shirt.  “That’s far.”_

_“Hey,” he says, leaning so he can look her in the eye, “_ nothing _is so far that it’ll keep me from you.”  She sniffles some more in response.  “I know it’ll be an adjustment, but… you know… it could be good for us.  We’ve practically been at each other’s sides since freshman year.  Now, we can have time to focus on ourselves ‒me on my football career and you on getting into law school‒ and we’ll be fine.  And Thanksgiving break will be great after all the time we’ll have spent apart.” He reaches forward and wipes away the tears with his thumb.  She laughs self-consciously and ducks her head down, trying to hide behind her hair.  “You don’t ever gotta hide anythin’ from me, alright?” He puts two fingers under her chin and tilts her head up.  “But you stop this now, or you’ll fog up your glasses and get a headache.  I know this is hard, but we’re going to be okay.  The hardest part is saying goodbye.  As soon as you and your parents and Alex start driving off, you’re gonna forget about this.”_

_“I love you,” she says, voice shaking, but he can see her reeling herself back in -probably for his benefit so he won't worry as much- and for that, he's grateful._

_“I love you too,” he replies, looking at her with all the love in the world.  “Can you do something for me?”  She nods.  “All those boys who ask what you’re doing in the Harvard Law Program, kick their asses.  Each and every one of ‘em.”_

_She laughs and hugs him again.  “Fair enough as long as_ you _do something for_ me _.”_

_“Anything.”_

_“Be careful out there on the field.  There are studies coming out about concussions and other brain issues, so just… I don’t want you to come back on Thanksgiving a vegetable yourself.”_

_“I’ll be careful,” he says, then kisses her._

_She turns around and walks to the SUV where her parents and brother are waiting.  He isn’t offended when she doesn’t look at him one last time before hopping into the back passenger seat.  He knows it’s not that she doesn’t want to, but that she can’t._

_They call each other every day that they’re apart except for March 22 nd ‒the phone lines are down as they always are on Purge Night.  The next morning, he gets worried when he doesn’t hear from her.  He’s in Mexico and had been perfectly safe the night before, but he knows she had opted to home for Spring Break.  She’s always been a studier and homebody, something that hasn’t changed since high school._

_He sometimes wonders how the jock ended up dating the valedictorian.  She’s a geek, yes, but he loves that about her.  She’s smart and she knows it ‒and she certainly doesn’t look like the typical geek.  And he might be a jock, but he’s sweet and sensitive despite his outward appearance._

_He books an earlier flight home and cuts his vacation two days short.  When he arrives at her house, he’s horrified to find her curled up on the carpeted stairs leading to the second floor of her family’s home.  When he rocks her and asks her to tell him what’s wrong, she simply sobs.  It’s a whole six hours later before she finally speaks, her voice raw and scratchy._

_“They’re all dead.”_

_He blinks.  Sure, he’d found it odd that no one else had been home, but she couldn’t possibly mean‒_

_“Charlie?  Where is everyone?”_

_“Dead,” she says, her voice monotone.  “This man, last night, he woke us all up and forced us into the living room.” She doesn’t sound like she usually does ‒bright and cheery‒ and it’s scaring him.  “And he told my mom to pick who would live ‒me or Alex‒ and she chose me and then he killed all three of them.”_

_“Oh my God,” he breathes and looks around.  He didn’t see any blood…_

_“The cleanup crew took them,” she says, following his gaze to the living room.  “And I dumped an entire bottle of bleach on everything over there.”  He doesn’t know what to say, so he simply holds her and whispers comforting words into her hair as the situation hits him fully: she has no one.  No aunts or uncles, no cousins.  Both sets of grandparents died when she was young.  He’s the only thing she has.  And he can’t handle that._

* * *

 

Leo looks up when he hears heels click-clacking against the wood floor, then checks his watch.  Fifteen minutes late.

“I took a shower,” she rolls her eyes at his antics.  Her hand accidentally brushes his as she sits down, and he nearly recoils; it’s cold as ice.  It appears she’d taken a _cold_   shower.  Though she usually wears minimal makeup, her face is completely devoid of any powder, liner, mascara, or… whatever else women wore.  He’d once tried to buy makeup for his ex-wife, but it’d confused the hell out of him.  He’d chosen a necklace instead. 

She’s dressed in black pants and a black cotton t-shirt, and he wonders if she subconsciously chose that color scheme to match her mood.

“What did you choose for tonight?” Leo asks as a server brings two plates with a silver cover over.

“Grilled cheese, tomato bisque soup, and Caesar salad,” the server replies.  “The chef says you’re the easiest President he’s ever had.”

“Tell Giancarlo he’s welcome,” Charlie says with a teasing smile.  “Thank you, Max.”

His eyes light up and Charlie schools her face to keep from frowning.  Every time she acknowledges any of the staff by their name, they always act like it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them.

“They’re probably not used to the President knowing their names and faces and caring about them,” Leo says as he attacks his grilled cheese.

“I wish I could wipe the smug smiles off of the assholes that have served before me,” she says while stabbing a piece of lettuce with her fork.

“See, I told you something’s bothering you,” Leo points at her with the spoon he’s about to put into the soup.

“I’m‒”

“Don’t say ‘you’re fine’.  You don’t get to do that with me.  You can be the President with everyone else except me.  After all we’ve been through together, I just wish you could see that I’m not going anywhere.  I know it’s a hard concept for you to understand: someone caring for _you_ , Charlie, not President Roan, but you’ve got to get it through that thick head of yours that I’m staying put no matter how hard you try to push me away.  And when you _stop_   trying to push me away and let me in, I’m _still_   not going to go anywhere. You know I lost my son, okay?  I know what it feels like to have to walk around with loss tugging at me every single fucking day.  You watched your _entire family_   get murdered because your mother chose you to be the one that lived.  I can’t imagine the kind of pain you must be carrying with you.  The _anger._   It’s a lot easier to be angry than to be hurt, and yeah, you seem like a very calm, reasonable person.  But you’re also angry, Charlie, and I saw it during debates when you were Senator, and I see it now when some asshole decides to start a protest to bring back The Purge.”  He adds quietly, “I saw it today when you were working the bag, so please don’t lie to me… if there’s one person in this world you _can_   be honest to, it’s me, and I think I deserve that.”

Charlie recoils as if he’d struck her, and he immediately feels the guilt settle in his stomach.  He’d crossed a line, sees it on her face.  He watches her eyes well up as she scoots the chair back and strides out of the room.  Giancarlo cautiously toes his way out of the kitchen, followed by Max.

“Did she not like grilled cheese?  She say she want comfort food, so I try not to make too fancy,” the Italian chef stutters nervously.  It takes Leo a moment to answer when he realizes past Presidents have simply stomped out of the kitchen when they hadn’t liked their meals.  He agrees with Charlie in wanting to wipe the smug smiles from their faces.  When he regains his voice, he says,

“No, she liked it.  It… it was me.  Listen,” he gets up, “I‒ this is really good.  Thank you for it.  But I’ve gotta go check on her.”

“You just go make sure she okay,” Giancarlo smiles.  Leo would have returned it had he not already been halfway across the room.

 

* * *

 

 

When she doesn’t open the door the first time he knocks, he understands; she’s mad and she certainly has a right to be.  After a second round of knocking and no answer, he has to take a deep breath to calm down.  When third time isn’t the charm, he lets  himself be a little angry.

“This is ridiculous, Charlie,” he sighs into the door ‒the stupid door they’d joked about yesterday that is now the thing that’s between them‒ and hopes she’ll come to her senses.  He almost walks away ‒out of frustration, because of the fact that the last thing she needs is some rumor about her head of security camped outside her bedroom‒ but realizes she has _no one_.  Her family’s dead.  She doesn’t even trust her own security team anymore after what happened on Purge Night last year.  He’s the one person in the world she completely trusts (he’s starting to think she might not be as naïve as he’d originally thought) and he may have just screwed everything up.  He sighs again and tries a different approach.  “Alright, look, it’s not ridiculous.  I crossed a line and I’m sorry.  You have every right to be mad.  Just… please don’t shut me out.”  He puts a palm to the door and waits.  He’ll wait all night if he has to.  After a full minute, he voices that thought out loud.  “I’m going to be sitting right here and I won’t leave until you talk to me.  I mean it, Charlie.”

She’s being stubborn, something she’s good at, and Leo knows he deserves it.  After ten minutes, she seems to come to the same realization he had: him sitting outside her door will cause her more problems than just talking to him.  He nearly falls back when she yanks the door open, and he scrambles to his feet.  She looks none too happy about opening the door, and even unhappier at seeing him.  He has the grace to look ashamed of himself.

If looks could kill, he’d be twice dead by now.

“I’m sorry,” he says, disappointed when her face doesn’t soften.  She really _is_   mad.  Charlie crosses her arms over her chest, still standing in the doorway.  He’s definitely not going to get out of this one easily.

“You’ve really gone and done it now, Leo,” she all but spits his name.

“Yes, I have,” he agrees, putting his hands up shoulder-height in surrender.  “I said some things I shouldn’t have, but can you look me in the eye and tell me I was wrong?”

He knows she can, knows she would if he were anyone else (she _is_   a politician, after all) but knows she _won’t_ , not with him.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, keeping her eyes to the ground but her tone indicates she means it.  “If I want to talk about something, I will.  So stop pushing me.”  He can only nod and swallow as she steps aside, ushering him into her room.  “You’re not a talker for… whatever your reasons are.  But you _have_   your reasons, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he nearly chuckles.  He has his reasons, alright (pride and not wanting to deal with the pain being the top two).

“So it stands to reason that I have mine,” she takes a breath and continues.  “After my family was killed, my boyfriend of nearly five years left me.  As you know, I don’t have any cousins or aunts or uncles or… anyone.  He was all I had, and he wasn’t up for being the only person left in my life.  I had a few friends, sure, but I was a nerd in high school, there wasn’t exactly a line of people waiting to be my friend, and besides, they were all at either UCLA or Stanford.  He was the only one I trusted to be around.  I didn’t want my new friends in college ‒not that you have time to make many as  pre-law student‒ to think of me as the girl whose family got murdered.  I didn’t want their pity, so I just never told them.  Brad was the one who found me that morning on the 23rd.  I was a mess, understandably.”  Her tone softens and she almost looks defeated as she sinks onto her bed.  “He broke up with me that night via text.  Told me he couldn’t do it, couldn’t handle being _there_   for me.  He was more focused on his damn football career than on the girl who just lost her entire family.  I’m not saying I needed him to stay at my house 24/7 or anything like that, but… he should’ve at least shown up for the funeral, whether we were together or not.  The point is, Leo, I’m not used to talking about anything.  And the one person who I would’ve felt comfortable talking to left me when it got hard being with me.  You’ll have to excuse any lingering trust issues I may have, though you’re one to talk…”

“That’s awful,” is the first thing he can think of to say.  He should say more, but, well, that’s a lot of information to take in.  He takes a seat next to her and hopes he’s not invading her bubble too much.

“Karma bit Brad in the ass, though.  A few weeks after… what happened… he broke his leg during practice.  He couldn’t play anymore.  He lost his scholarship because it was a sports scholarship, he flunked out of his classes because, well, he was going to Penn State solely on that football scholarship, not because he had any academic prowess.”

“And look at you,” he smiles, “while he flunked out and basically has no life, you are now the President of the United States.”  She returns the smile, reaches over and squeezes his hand.  “You were pre-law?” He asks.

“I was,” she nods, standing up and moving to her bureau to organize the various items she has laid out on top ‒perfume, nail polish, hair sprays and gels.  “I worked as a prosecutor for eight years before venturing into politics.”

“I don’t know how you did it,” he says after a few beats.  “You’ve done all of this on your own…” he trails off in one of those rare moments where he’s truly at a loss for words.  “You may have survived that night physically, Charlie, but you survived it mentally and emotionally as well.  You are _incredible_.”

He watches as her movements stiffen and become a little jerky.  He knows she doesn’t take compliments well (the result of being gorgeous her entire life but somehow not believing it) and he chastises himself for being so stupid.  She walks over to the nightstand and picks up the framed picture of her and her family.

“I wasn’t always incredible,” she says so softly Leo almost misses it.  He wants to say something, but he has a feeling that he should wait for her to continue.  “I was the sensitive one in the family,” she says a little louder.  “I think I remember crying over every single MSPCA commercial.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” he says, resisting the urge to pull her back down onto the bed, knowing she needs space.

“It’s kind of… problematic for a politician with an unpopular opinion,” Charlie responds, lips quirking up a bit.  “Come to think of it, I don’t know how I ever thought I could be a lawyer -a federal prosecutor nonetheless.  Alex ‒my brother‒ was the one who would cause problems at school and… I wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t broken every bone in his body.  He was good friends with Brad..  They were both on the football team, and Brad treated him like a brother.  Alex... he was crazy.  He took stupid risks and made bad decisions when he was with friends, you know?  We couldn't have been more different, but despite that, we didn't fight all that much." A frown replaces the small smile that had formed at the fond memories.  "When the man gave my mom the ultimatum, when she had to choose between me and my brother, I remember thinking that she’d surely pick Alex.  He was tougher than me and definitely more equipped to handle the emotional turmoil…”

“Hey,” Leo says, searching her eyes and hoping she listens, “your mom picked you and in a way, she left a terrible burden on you.  But look at the good that you have accomplished because of it.”  He can see that she’s taken just about as much as she can of the heart to heart they’re having.  “Look, my point today was, if you ever want to talk, you can talk to me.  I wasn’t sure you knew that, but, now I know it’s not me that’s the reason you don’t always talk to me.  As long as you know you can, I’ll try to leave you alone unless you seek me out.”

“I promise,” she replies quickly, sending him a grateful smile for ending the moment.  She leans forward and gives him a peck on the cheek.  He’s glad she only has a candle lit so that the darkness hides the blush creeping up his face (since when does he blush?)  “Now go,” she says, giving him a slight push off the bed.

“You don’t want me to stay?  I won’t leave as soon as the sun comes up, if you’re still mad about‒”

“I’m not mad,” she shakes her head, smirking.  He’s glad to see she’s feeling better after the damage he’d caused (but still wonders if she’s simply put on her mask again).  “I just… need to be alone for a while.”

“Alright,” he says as he puts a hand on the doorknob.  “You know where to find me if you need anything.”  He quickly adds, “but don’t just leave by yourself to come to my house.  Call me and I’ll come to you.”

“I wouldn’t think of doing such a thing,” Charlie says with fake innocence dripping from her voice.

“Uh huh…” he teases before sliding out of the room and closing the overtly ornate door behind him.

She sighs and flops back against the pillows.  She’d kissed him on the cheek.  Why had she done that?  She hopes sleep finds her easy tonight; she doesn’t have the energy to deal with thoughts of Leo.  She feels a tear slide down her cheek and she swipes angrily at it.  What Leo had said in the kitchen had hurt.  The words still sting a bit, even though she knows his intentions hadn’t been to cause her any pain.  Others have said far harsher things to her without hurting.  She suddenly remembers why she’d built her walls in the first place:

Because if nobody is close enough to hurt you, then you can’t be hurt.

Another realization hits her: she cares about Leo because if she didn’t, his words wouldn’t have hurt.  She’s more scared now than she had been during Purge Night last year.

All because she has feelings for Leo Barnes.


	4. 3/18/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Together, Leo and Charlie come up with a plan for March 22nd that will keep her both happy and safe. So why does it sound more like a date?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me longer than I anticipated to write, mostly due to classes. My goal for this story has been to post chapters weekly, but as you can see, they might be one or two days off. This chapter is also a little shorter than I was shooting for, but it felt like a natural place to leave off and I didn't want to interrupt the flow in order to get the word count up a bit. Quality over quantity.
> 
> That said, I really appreciate any and all feedback; admittedly, it helps me to write faster. 
> 
> Nope, I still don't own The Purge: Election Year. I can own the DVD in October, though...

It’s four days away from March 22nd, and Leo isn’t feeling any better about things.  He still doesn’t have a concrete plan ‒bringing Charlie to a bunker after her work is done on the 21st isn’t what he’d call a _mediocre_ plan, never mind concrete‒ and that’s if she’d even cooperate.  He hopes that after last year’s ordeal, she’ll agree to a bunker.  He knows he’ll have to play his cards perfectly, though.  He squares his shoulders and plasters a smile on his face as he raps his knuckles against the doorframe of the Oval Office.  She looks up and offers him a small, tight-lipped smile in return.

“Am I interrupting anything too important?” he asks as he crosses the threshold. 

“Everything I do is important, Leo,” she answers, her eyes never leaving the computer screen.  Her voice has an edge to it and he chooses to be honored that she’s allowing him to hear it, rather than offended.

“Well, that’s why I said ‘too important’,” he pauses, opens his mouth, then closes it.  He decides not to push.  She’d promised him last night that if she wanted to talk about something, she would.  And he’d promised not to push.  She glances up, seeming to know he wanted to ask if she was alright, and looks back at her laptop.  This is going to be hard, Leo decides, this whole ‘not asking’ thing.

“No, now’s fine,” she finally says after a few seconds.  She still sounds just as annoyed, though.  He watches her hit what he assumes are the ‘ctrl’ and ‘s’ keys and spin her chair so it’s facing him more.  He takes this as a cue to sit in one of the leather chairs that face her desk.  She looks at him expectantly, and he clears his throat.  He hadn’t considered ‘make sure Charlie’s in a good mood’ as part of his plan.  Now he thinks he should’ve.

“We need to talk about the 22nd,” he sighs, trying to convey to her just how much he’d rather be talking about something more pleasant.  She only nods in response, so he keeps going.  “I’d like to put you in a bunker this time.”

“No,” is her immediate reply.  He opens his mouth to argue but she starts talking again before he has a chance.  “The only reason we got out of my house alive was because you had a failsafe in the form of a bomb and another exit.  A bunker could cause more problems than it’ll fix.”

“Well… okay, yeah.  You’re right about that.  But I’d be the only one in there with you.  And I certainly won’t try to kill you.”

“Have you built this bunker yet?”

He can tell her mood is only getting worse and he sighs again, “no.”

“So _someone_   will know the location of this bunker.  No.  There are too many variables.”

“Charlie…”

“I’m not going to a bunker, Leo,” she says, her tone clipped.

“Well then, what _do_   you want!?” His voice isn’t particularly loud, not enough to draw any attention to them, but it’s loud enough for her to give him a look.

“I don’t know,” she responds in the measured calmness of a seasoned politician. He can hear everything else hiding behind the calm: the fear, the anger, the frustration.  She sighs and adjusts her glasses. “I…”

It’s one of the few times he’s seen her at a loss for words, so he decides to jump in.

“I’m really not sure what our other options are.  I’ve personally vetted everyone that’s on your security detail, but if you’re not comfortable with them being involved, then we won’t involve them.”

“I just… can’t,” she shakes her head and he thinks her voice is a bit wobbly.  He doesn’t like it, not one bit, because he’s not allowed to ask if she’s okay ‒to which she eventually answers him honestly and he can then comfort her‒ but he can’t.  “One of my own people tried to kill me,” she says, her voice stronger now.  “It pisses me off.  And it pisses me off even more that I now can’t trust anyone but you because of that asshole.”

He can’t help the smile that twitches at the corners of his mouth.

“What?” she presses her own lips in a thin line, clearly none too happy that he’s amused by the situation.

“I’m not laughing at you, exactly, but… I think that’s the most colorful language I’ve ever heard you use.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes the situation calls for it,” she replies.  After a moment of comfortable silence, she says, “Or we could run around the streets again.”

It takes him a moment to get what she means, and when he _does_   get it, he knows he’d have fallen out of his chair if he were the type that does that sort of thing.  Instead, he settles for a flabbergasted, “ _what!_ ”

“I’m not hiding, Leo,” she says in that tone that he knows there’s no arguing against.

“Okay, but… do you _want_   to get yourself killed?  Because if we do that, you might as well paint a target on your back ‒oh, and while you’re at it, wear a neon ‘I am Charlie Roan’ sign where a Kevlar should be‒ are you _serious_?”

“It worked last time,” she says evenly.

“Look,” he says after he counts to ten in his head.  “I know you want to make a point here.  And I fully support you.  But I _can’t_   support something that could get you hurt.  It… I’d have to fire myself.  It’s my _job_   to protect you, but more than that, I don’t want to see you get hurt.  You’re the first person I’ve cared about in a _long_   time, and I can’t lose you, Charlie.”  He watches as she sits ramrod straight, and he wonders what he’s said this time.

And then it hits him.

 _Well, shit_.

She swivels her chair so she’s facing the window (something he’s told her not to do a thousand times) and says nothing.  He plucks a pen from her pen-holder on her desk and begins fiddling with it.  He doesn’t really have any nervous ticks since he’s not someone who gets nervous, but something about Charlie Roan makes him very nervous (and he knows it’s more than just the fact that she disregards half of the rules he makes for her safety).  He can face down criminals and murderers no problem, but the blonde-haired, blue-eyed enigma sitting in front of him scares him shitless sometimes.

“If we keep moving the entire night, the chances of someone discovering our whereabouts will significantly decrease.”

“We could leave the country.  I know a guy in Bora Bora‒”

“I’m not running.”

“Right,” he sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.  She still hasn’t turned around, and it’s freaking him out.  “I’m not leaving you to your own devices,” he says after a few moments.

“I know.”

“What I need is time to think of another plan, but I’m running out, Charlie.  I’ll go back to my office, look at some blueprints‒”

“What I want,” she starts off slowly, and he ignores the fact that she cut him off again, “is to crawl into a nice, warm hole and hide for the entire night.  Maybe sleep through it.” She spins herself back around, and he can see the weariness written all over her face.  “That’s what I want.  But I can’t.  I mean, I could, but… well, there isn’t a perfectly safe hole for me to crawl into.  And I don’t want them to win.  I don’t want them to think they’ve _broken_   me.  So, no, I can’t hide in a hole, even if I could find one.  But with you, you’re kind of like a hole.  I feel safe when I’m with you.”

He’s surprised at her admission and isn’t quite sure what to say. He smiles warmly for a moment.

“We’ll figure it out, don’t worry,” he reaches across the desk and grips her left hand.  She squeezes back and offers him a small smile.

“They’re going to come after me no matter what we do,” she says, untangling her hand from his.  “It’s just a question of where do we want to be when they do.”

It’s a truth he hasn’t yet considered, and he wonders if she’s known all along.  He’s just assumed he could hide her somewhere safe and protect her; not once has it occurred to him that _anyone_   could get to her if they really wanted.  All it would take is one person on the security team turning on her ‒something they both knew all too well.  He knows she’s right, but he still wants to assuage her fears as best as he can.

“Charlie‒”

“I’m okay with that,” she says, her features softening.  “It’s what I signed up for.  I just want to minimize collateral damage and reduce the unknowns as much as possible.”

Damn woman always seems to be able to read his mind.

“So you won’t stay here.” When she shakes her head, he continues, “and you won’t have anyone other than me with you, either.”

“I can’t trust them,” she reiterates, and he nods in understanding.

“So flying somewhere is out of the question if you won’t get on Air Force One.”

“I’m not running,” Charlie reminds him, and he feels like they’re talking in circles.

“I know,” he sighs, leans back in his chair, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I’m annoying you,” she says with a bemused smirk.

“No, not annoying,” he ends up linking his hands together behind his head as he thinks.  “You’re just the most stubborn person I’ve ever met and it makes my job really hard.”

“My apologies,” she replies in a tone that says she is not at all sorry.

“I have an idea,” he suddenly springs to life and leans forward.  He’s the most animated she’s ever seen him and her interest piques.  “Road trip within D.C.  We can take the armored sedan wherever we feel like all night.  It’s not my first choice, by the way, but it’ll do.  You won’t leave the city, so we’ll stay in it.  It’ll be just you and me, that’s the other item on your checklist.”

She cocks her head to the side, milling it over. “I’m making a public appearance first.”

“ _Jesus_ , Charlie, now I _really_   think you have a death wish.  No‒”

“Executive decision,” she cuts in, eyes as fiery as they always are during a debate.

“That’s not fair,” he crosses arms and begins pacing.

“Too bad,” she shoots back.

“Damnit, Charlie…” he heaves a frustrated sigh and tries to keep his anger in check.  “What if someone shoots at you?”

“I’ll wear a Kevlar.”

“A Kevlar won’t protect your head,” he stops his pacing to look her in the eye before starting again.  He’s never been able to sit still (something else that annoyed his ex-wife).

“According to you I have a hard head.”

He smiles a little at that and sits back down.  “Can it please be televised?  Filmed from this office?”

“Okay,” she nods.  “Only because you said ‘please’,” she adds with a teasing smirk.  He visibly relaxes, his tight muscles releasing some of the tension he’d been holding.

“So we have a plan,” he says.

“I guess we do.”


	5. 3/19/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An intense conversation leads to unforeseen consequences. Leo's really gone and done it now, and he has no idea what to do and how to fix it. All he knows is that this is very, very bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... there's a surprise at the end of this chapter. I didn't mean for this to happen so soon in the story, but it felt natural and right, so... *shrugs*. Not that I think any of you will complain. 
> 
> It's a little shorter than usual, but you've been waiting long enough for a new chapter and a lot of things happen in this one, so I figured I might as well go ahead and post it. Your feedback/support makes my day!
> 
> I don't own The Purge: Election Year or profit from this story.

“Would you have pulled the trigger?” Leo asks from the couch against the wall adjacent to Charlie’s desk.

“What?” She looks up at him, blue eyes meeting brown for a moment before dropping back down to the computer screen in front of her.  He knows she’s busy with a bunch of paperwork ‒terrorist chatter has been steadily increasing for the past few weeks‒ but he’s curious and he also thinks this is kind of important.  He _also_   thinks his line of questioning is probably (definitely) a bad idea in terms of their relationship.  But, he reasons, it’s something he needs to know.

“Purge Night,” he says quietly, and pauses, waiting until her fingers still on the keyboard and she gives him her undivided attention.  Those two words always seem to do the trick.  “When we were in the deli and we were being attacked, you made me give you a gun.  Would you have actually pulled the trigger?”

She leans back in her chair and her face goes expressionless.  It’s something he’s not quite used to ‒she does it when she’s feeling particularly vulnerable and he’s only seen it when she’s interacting with her political enemies‒ he knows she does it when she has feelings about something she doesn’t want anyone to know about.  Leo’s good at picking up little things like that, and after all his time on force, he’s learned that sometimes a non-reaction is more telling than a reaction.

“I need to know,” he says by way of apology, making a concentrated effort to keep his typically gruff voice softer, calmer.  She doesn’t seem any less pissed, but her face softens too, somewhat, and he knows she at least appreciates his efforts.

“I survived my entire family being murdered and changed the entire course of my undergrad career and dedicated my life to putting a stop to this madness,” she starts in a tight voice, “I have lost _far_   too much to let everything I’ve done go to waste because someone decided to kill me.  I may be a pacifist, Leo, and I may not agree with your ‘shoot first, as questions later’ approach to life, but I would have pulled that trigger.”

It takes every ounce of self-control she has to stay in her chair and not bolt out of the room.  She doesn’t want to think about that night at all ‒especially about how she almost had to take a life‒ she doesn’t want to stay under Leo’s scrutinizing gaze, either.

He almost apologizes for putting her in this situation, for bringing all these bad memories up.  He just can’t quite get the words to come out.

“You’re mad,” he says instead, because it’s always easier putting the ball in her court.  She’s the one who’s good with words.  Well, usually.  She sighs, drops her head into her hands then picks it back up.  She runs one hand through her hair and leans back again. 

Now he wishes he’d just apologized.

“I’m not mad,” she finally says, voice a mixture of exasperation, amusement, and weariness. 

“Well, you’re… _something_ ,” he gestures around.

“And you used to be a cop?  Doesn’t that involve reading people?” She teases with a smirk.

“I mostly interrogated men,” he responds, “women are different.”

“Women don’t kill?” she quirks an eyebrow up.  Charlie doesn’t miss a single detail or implication in anything anyone says and he cracks a grin, shaking his head; he should’ve known.

“No, they do,” he quickly amends.  “Just… not usually caught.  They’re neat and don’t leave evidence.  Their typical weapon of choice is a handgun, so unless we get lucky with a ballistics match, it’s harder to find out who did it because guns don’t transfer DNA from the shooter to the victim.  Because we have an exceptionally difficult time IDing female killers and we can’t arrest said woman without IDing her, we don’t usually bring them in.  So I don’t usually interrogate them.  But when I do, there are differences.”  He pauses for dramatic effect, almost starts talking again, then decides to think through what he wants to say.  “And women are complicated.  Men?  We’re simple.”

At that, she snorts, but gestures for him to continue.  Clearly, she’s amused, and Leo knows he might be digging a hole for himself here, but if it makes her smile, he’ll happily do it.

“When interrogating a woman, there are generally three approaches: flirting, intimidating, or coaxing.  Clearly I’m not the warmest guy in the world, so the last was of very little use to me.  But in order to decide which tactic to use, I needed to figure out her temperament.   That’s a very difficult thing to do because you guys go from like zero to sixty in five seconds flat.  And if  I chose the wrong tactic and pissed her off, I could forget about ever getting anything out of her.”

“Are you sure you didn’t piss them off because you made assumptions based on a stereotype?” She’s rounded her desk now and is leaning on it, facing him.  It takes a lot of effort, but he keeps his eyes on hers and his focus on the conversation at hand, not on the way her red knee-length skirt hugs her curves in all the right places.

“Look, maybe I made assumptions, but it’s not entirely my fault.  My ex-wife was a little nuts.”  If his ex-wife is news to her, she doesn’t show it.  Instead of responding, she lets the silence envelope the room, knowing he’ll eventually talk.  “Okay, well, she wasn’t exactly _nuts_   but she got mad over the stupidest things and instead of just telling me what she was mad about, she’d insist nothing was wrong.  And then an hour later she’d start yelling at me out of the blue and then cry and then yell some more.  And my old partners all said the same things about their wives.  So forgive me for assuming most women are like that.”

“So you treated your interogees like they were crazy?  I’m sure that went over well,” she has a bemused smirk on her face, and he can tell she’s absolutely in love with the fact that he’s completely out of his depth.

“Suspects, not interogees,” he corrects.  “I don’t even think ‘interogees’ is a word.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

She’s got him pinned in a corner, forcing him to answer with a truth that will only make him look bad.  _Politician_ , he chides himself. 

“No, it didn’t go over well,” he finally relents, not quite admitting what he knows she wants him to say.  But she simply laughs again, sounding more carefree than he’s heard her in ages, and appears to drop the topic without any more goading or pushing.  And then he remembers what got them on this topic anyway: he’d thought she was mad.  “Wait… is this one of those times where women say they’re not mad and then an hour later start yelling?”

“What?” she looks genuinely confused, and he thinks he should have left well enough alone.  Now he’s hopped _into_   the hole.

“A few minutes ago, I thought you were mad.  You said you weren’t.  I’m just checking.”

“Leo, if I was mad, you’d know,” she pushes herself off the desk, walks back around it, and sits in her swivel chair. 

“Sometimes,” he cocks his head, “but sometimes, when you’ve decided to shut everyone out, I can’t read you.  But anyway, my reason for coming down here was to give you an update on our plan.  I’d like to have a mini armory in the sedan, just in case.”

“And you needed to know if I’d actually shoot someone, if it came down to it,” she says slowly and quietly, nodding.

“Yeah,” he shoots her what he hopes is an apologetic look.

“Well, you have your answer,” she replies in a monotone, her voice lower than usual.

“You’re doing it again,” he leans forward, tries to catch her gaze as it flicks across the computer screen.  He knows what she’s doing ‒giving herself a distraction so she can’t be fully with him right now‒ and he wants her to stop.  “Charlie,” he says quietly but forcefully.  She moves her hands from the keyboard to her lap and meets his eyes, though it takes a great deal of effort.  “Don’t do this, alright?  I’m not anticipating anything happening, but I just… I need to know you’ll take care of yourself if something happens to me.  I know you _can_ , I just don’t know that you _will_.”

“Nothing’s going to happen to you,” she swallows hard and ignores the flurry of emotions that run through her.

“We can’t plan like that,” he reaches forward and lays his hand palm-up on her desk.  After a few moments she hesitantly puts her smaller hand on top of his.  He closes his around hers, squeezing gently.  “I need to promise me that _no matter what_ , you fight like hell.”

She takes a few steadying breaths before whispering, hoarsely, “I promise.”

“Okay,” he tries to smile but it doesn’t feel right.

“Then you promise me something, too.”

“Sure,” he says, and neither of them notice when he begins rubbing small circles on the top of her hand with his thumb.

“Try not to die or otherwise become incapacitated.”

Though her wording makes him want to laugh, he knows if he does he just might become her first victim.

“I’ll try,” he says, and he means it.  A year ago, he wouldn’t care.  He’d put himself in more danger than was necessary to finish a job.  Now, he does care.  He has something to live for for the first time since his son died, and it hits him like a ton of bricks: Charlene Roan.  It may not be the most logical thing, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind and before he can talk some common sense into himself, he’s leaning forward and pressing his lips against hers.

She freezes at first, but then relaxes and returns the kiss.  That is, until she all but throws herself backward, blue eyes wide and terrified.  Leo imagines he looks much the same way, because she hasn’t screamed at him yet.  So, she’s probably not mad, but if the look in her eyes isn’t enough to clue him in, the way she runs out of the room definitely tells him she’s scared shitless.

Which is just fantastic, because so is he.

And to put the icing on the cake, he has three days to fix this unless he wants her to go GI Jane all by herself on Purge Night.

Fan‒freaking‒tastic.


	6. 3/19/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo and Charlie deal with the fallout from their kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to get up; as you may have seen, I wanted to get this chapter right, and I couldn't until I rewatched the movie, which I did Saturday night. Not a lot in terms of plot happens in this chapter, but yay for character development. I also, upon rewatch, saw that Charlie has a brother, not a sister, so I went back to previous chapters and edited that a bit. You don't have to reread for subsequent chapters to make sense, but I wanted to let you guys know in case you see her mentioning her brother from now on. I also realized Leo's a lot gruffer than I remembered and Charlie's a little angrier and more snarkastic (yes I invented that word) than I remembered, so I'm hoping to reflect that from now on (I also made a few edits like that in previous chapters to things I felt were OOC upon rewatch). 
> 
> Anyway, I enjoy the chapter! 
> 
> I don't own the movie and I am not profiting from this.

Somehow Charlie manages to make it to her room before hyperventilating.  The slamming of her door ‒that stupidly ornate door that she hates‒ echoes in the otherwise quiet hallway and attracts the attention of the few people who are still milling about.  Normally, she’d care that she likely scared the crap out of them, but right now, she can’t think about anything other than the feel of Leo’s lips on hers.

She still remembers the last time she’d kissed someone and how horribly wrong everything afterwards had gone.

_“Can you do something for me?” Brad had asked.  She’d nodded._

_“Fair enough as long as you  do something for me.”_

_“Anything.”_

 

And now, she’d just had an eerily similar conversation with Leo.  It’s playing over and over in her head, the fear growing with ever replay.

 

_“I need to promise me that no matter what, you fight like hell.”_

_“I promise,” she had replied, voice shaky and scratchy and not at all sounding the way she’d wanted it to._

_“Okay.”_

_“Then you promise me something, too.”_

_“Sure.”_

Leo had been so willing to do whatever she’d wanted if it made her happy.  He understands her in a way nobody else has, and she knows he genuinely enjoys her presence.  She’s not stupid, she knows she makes it hard to be on her security team because she does as she pleases.  He will always be a saint for the way he puts up with her with little complaint (lots of grumbling, but he’s never once complained).  She loves him for that.

He’s a good man and no, they don’t always see eye to eye on everything, but she _knows_  he has a good heart, even if he can’t see it.  She also loves him for‒

She tries to put a stop to these thoughts as she sinks into the bed (refuses to call it ‘her’ bed because it isn’t, it’s just some random bed she’s sleeping in until her and Leo get around to redecorating).

He kissed her.  She kissed him back.  She’s scared.  He also looked scared.  Fear is something she’s never seen on his face before, and she wonders if he’s even aware of his feelings for her.  She thinks he must be, since he looked scared.

That, or he was scared of getting fired.  That must be it, she decides.  But why would he be scared of getting fired unless he likes protecting her?  They have easy conversations at dinner every night, and they often visit each other in their respective offices just to say hello and break up the monotony of their daily activities.  She trusts him with her deepest, darkest secrets, and he does the same to her.

Okay, so she loves him.  And they’re friends, so this could definitely be a problem. 

 _But he kissed her_.  Could he possibly feel the same way about her?  She can’t picture Leo being in love with anyone.  She knows that despite the tough-guy vibe he gives off, he can also be sweet when he really tries.  But still, could he love her?  She groans and pulls a pillow over her face, pretending for a few moments that it can actually block out the rest of the world.

 

* * *

 

Leo decides he should leave her office because he doesn’t particularly want to see her anytime soon.  It’s childish, he knows, but he made a mistake that could jeopardize everything and quite frankly, he doesn’t want to deal with it right now.  With a sigh, he heads out and ‒because of fucking course this would happen to him‒ runs straight into Charlie.  Their bodies collide and it’s only after she adjusts her glasses and shoots him an apologetic look does she realize it’s Leo she’s run into.

 _Fuck_.

“I‒I left my phone in my office and I have a meeting…”

“Of course,” he nods, and he steps to his left as she steps to her right.  The nearly run into each other again.  “I’ll go this way,” he says, pointing to his right.  As he prepares to step around her, she reaches out and grasps his arm.

“Leo, I‒” she sighs and takes a moment to collect herself.  “We need to talk,” her voice is stronger now, and she pulls him back into her office and closes the door.

“Charlie‒”

“Shut up,” she commands, backing him up against the door.  “Why did you kiss me?”

“I…” He flounders for a moment, struggling to hold her intense gaze, weighs all his options.  Finally, he decides to be a smart ass because, well, when it comes to emotions, he sucks.  “It’s kinda obvious.”

“Not to me, explain.” Her hands have made their way to the lapels of his jacket as she holds him against the wall.

“You’re hot,” he cracks a shit-eating grin, and before he even registers the fact that her right hand is no longer on his jacket, he feels it smack into his jaw.  His own hand reaches up to rub at his jaw.  “ _Jesus_ , Charlie‒”

“You son of a bitch!” she yells, and he looks at her ‒she’s moved a few feet back from him‒ and he can’t decide if she’s going to punch him again or start crying.  He doesn’t want either to happen, so he’s quick to start doing damage control.

“Okay, that comment was uncalled for,” he says slowly, deliberately keeping his voice calm and level so as not to upset her more.  “I’m sorry.”

She only nods in response and he assumes she’s collecting herself ‒which is perfectly fine with him because he has zero desire to be punched again nor does he want to have made her cry.

“Apology accepted,” she says after a few moments, her voice tight.  She’s still reeling from the kiss itself and the recently acquired knowledge that thinking for a second that Leo doesn’t feel the same makes her react in extreme ways.  It shouldn’t matter this much ‒ _he_  shouldn’t‒ but it does, and _he_   does, and she’s never been one to run away from her problems.  She knows he does, sometimes, when those problems involve emotions.  “I know this isn’t your thing,” she says softly, taking a step towards him, “but _you_   kissed _me_ , and I kissed you back, and…” she tucks a strand of blonde behind her ear, suddenly self-conscious.  “I think it meant something.”

“It did,” he swallows, the gravel once again returning to his voice.  “But Charlie, you know I was married before, it… I’m not good at relationships.”

“Neither am I,” her lips quirk up, “remember?  I’ve only had one boyfriend and he left me.  I know you won’t do that.  You’re a good man, Leo, you just… like to pretend your heart of gold doesn’t exist.  Look, we’ve been eating dinner together every night since I got sworn in, we’ve had sleep overs… you care about me, I care about you.  I’m not asking for commitment, I’m not asking you to marry me.  I’m just asking that you at least acknowledge your feelings.”

“Hey, I _would_   commit to you, if you asked,” this time, it’s him who steps closer.  He puts his hands on her shoulders, keeps her from looking away.  “I don’t think you’re ready for that, though.  I’m not Brad, I won’t leave you if it gets hard, okay?  You are an _amazing_   woman, Charlie.  Being with you isn’t a chore, I enjoy your company.”  When she sniffles and rolls her eyes at herself, he adds to lighten the mood, “Even when you’re punching me, I still enjoy your company.”

It gets a laugh out of her, and he mentally pats himself on the back.  Maybe he doesn’t suck at this as much as he thought he did.

“We’re a pair, aren’t we?” she looks up at him, eyes filled with amusement.

“We make a good team,” he reaches out and takes her hand, testing the waters.  He doesn’t want to do too much too fast (she’s not usually one for physical comfort), but he wants to do _something_   to show her he’s willing to try if she is.

“Nothing has to change,” she says quietly.  “I just needed to put how I feel out there.”

“Yeah,” he nods, suddenly unsure.  “So… what do we do now?”

“Well, I have a meeting,” she says, making her way to her desk.  He can practically seeing the mask she usually wears being put back on.  “And you have a mobile armory to build.”

“Okay,” he nods again.  He watches as she breezes out of the room (late, he assumes, because their conversation took longer than she’d expected), and he wonders how she can say that ‘nothing has to change’ because _this_   changes everything for him.


	7. 3/19/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo and Charlie share a tender moment followed by some angst, which leads to some fun times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers! I made it through my week from hell, so here's a new chapter now that I've had a couple days to write! Just a quick note: I edited an earlier chapter because upon rewatching the movie, I realized Charlie was actually a lawyer before becoming Senator. I had head-cannoned she was prelaw then switched to polisci, but I've changed things so that she was a prosecutor (which you will read very briefly about in this chapter). I believe it was chapter 4 I changed if you want to read more about it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own The Purge: Election Year.

Leo takes a step back from the white van, admiring his handiwork.  He’s crammed as many guns into the back as possible, and a few in the front, but he still worries it won’t be enough.  He hears the door squeak open and close quietly, followed by the click-clack of Charlie’s high heels on the cement of the garage.

“That’s a lot of guns for two people, Leo,” she says, siding up next to him.

“I like to be prepared,” he responds, folding his arms across his chest.

“I know,” she nods.  Somehow, her head finds its way to his shoulder.

“You’re nervous.” At that, she nods again.

“I am.”

“Nobody will know where we’re going.”

“I know,” she repeats.  They’re quiet for a few moments before she speaks again.  “That really is a lot of guns.  And‒ _Leo_ , are those _assault rifles_!?”

“The same rules apply: point and shoot, don’t shoot me.”

She spins to the side, fully intending on lecturing him, but with the way his lips are quirking up into a smile, any protests die on her own lips.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” she smirks, pats him on the arm, and hauls herself into the van.  “Is there time to install a minifridge?”

He pauses for a second, trying to decide if she was being serious or not.  “Probably not the best idea, President.”

She shoots him a look, but he knows she no longer gets annoyed when he uses her proper title.

“You did a great job, Leo,” she smiles.

“It’s not done yet,” he climbs in as well.

“Well, it looks good so far,” she replies softly.  “Thank you for doing this for me.  I know it wasn’t your first choice.”

“I’d do anything for you.  Besides,” he adds, “you’re a hard woman to argue with.”

“I am.” Her tone is clipped, but he has a feeling it has nothing to do with his comment.

“That was a compliment,” he says just to be safe.

“I know,” Charlie says for the third time in two minutes.

“How’d your meeting go?” She huffs and shakes her head.  “That bad?”

“We still don’t have control of the Senate.  Trying to get anything done is… difficult.”

“At least you get the final say in things.”

“It’s still frustrating,” she sighs and takes a seat on the padded bench in the back of the van, which she now realizes is a modified ambulance.  “Leo, how’d you get an ambulance?”

“I used to be a cop,” he replies, shrugging.  “I know some people.” Sensing her unease, he continues.  “I’m not anticipating there being a need for medical supplies, but‒”

“You like to be prepared,” she finishes with a smirk.

“Yeah,” he sits down next to her.  They enjoy each other’s comfortable silence for a while before Charlie says,

“Tell me about your ex-wife.”

“What!?” He can’t help but sputter the first thing that comes to mind, but she doesn’t look deterred.

“Come on,” she nudges his shoulder, “you know lots about me and I barely know anything about you.”

“You know plenty of things about me,” he replies.

“I know you’re an ex-cop with an ex-wife,” she snarks, then says more softly, “and I know you almost killed the man who took your son’s life.”

“See?  Plenty.”

“You married her for a reason,” she prods, hellbent on getting _something_   from him.

“Yeah, Charlie, people generally don’t get married without one.”

She fixes him with that ice cold glare that has always made everyone on the receiving end cower.  Leo seems immune to it, though, because while he’s not exactly glaring at her, his eyes are flashing with warning.  She doesn’t seem to be bothered, either, and keeps plowing on.

“What happened to you?  I get the whole ‘tough stoic cop’ routine is probably hard to let go of, but I get the feeling you’ve been like this long before you joined the force.” She’s standing up now, putting some distance between them.  She’s not scared of him, knows he would never _ever_   hurt her, but standing makes her feel a little more powerful.

He wants so desperately to be able to be angry with her for what she’s doing, but he can’t.  Not when he knows she’s right, that he knows so much about her and she knows nothing about him.  Not when the situation has always been reversed and _he’s_   the one pushing _her_   to open up, digging for information, which she always begrudgingly gives up.  So, he takes a deep breath and says,

“Her name is Janice.  We got divorced shortly after I almost killed the drunk driver who killed my son.  She didn’t want me to do it, wanted to try to move on, but I couldn’t.”

“You never move on from losing a loved one being murdered,” she resists the urge to sit back down and take his hand, knowing he’d hate it.

“No, you don’t,” Leo agrees solemnly.  He abruptly gets up and jumps out of the van.  “I should probably get back to my office, I’m going to hold a meeting this evening with the rest of the secret service staff, so I’ll probably miss dinner.”

“Okay,” she says, somehow managing to keep the disappointment from showing on her face and in her voice.  Her favorite part of the day is dinner with Leo.  “I have some paperwork to do anyway,” she adds for some reason she can’t quite identify (sort of like she doesn’t want him to think she has no life outside of what she does with him.  That she’s come to depend on his companionship.  Because that is most certainly not the case.  Charlene Roan doesn’t need anyone, nor does Leo Barnes.)

She wonders if this new thing they have is about to blow up in their faces.

* * *

 

 

Instead of going to her office, she ends up in the basement, beating the shit out of a poor, unsuspecting punching bag.  She’d sent the secret service agent that’s supposed to be standing guard outside the door for a nice long walk (Leo may be immune to her glares, but the rest of the agents aren’t) because she’s pretty sure if anyone saw her now, they’d think she’s lost her mind.

And maybe she has

She can’t stop thinking about Leo.  She tries to get her mind to focus on the assholes from her meeting earlier in the day ‒the not at all subtle sexist remarks‒ but she always ends up drifting back to Leo and what happened in the van.  As her fist makes contact with the bag for what feels like the thousandth time, she decides it’s not her fault he reacted badly.  He always pushes her to open up, he should expect her to turn the tables every once in a while.

Something suddenly hits her with crushing realization: she’s never seen him drink, he probably doesn’t, not since a drunk driver killed his son.

And then she goes and gets smashed because she misses her blown up house that hasn’t felt like home in nearly nineteen years.  She wonders if he judges her.

She tries to tell herself that even if he does judge her, it doesn’t matter.  Half the nation judges her on a daily basis.  Their opinions don’t matter, and his shouldn’t either.

Except it does.

She grunts, driving her gloved fists into the bag even harder, even faster.  She’s sick of Leo and his brown eyes and stubble and how he makes her feel like a teenager.  But not seeing him tonight is leaving her with disappointment bubbling in her stomach, and she knows she could never be sick of him, not really.

It’s just that she really _, really_   hates being the person that cares the most.  She was always that person when her family was alive.  In the courtroom, she fought tooth and nail for the victims she was representing ‒more often than not, murder victims who couldn’t speak for themselves‒ and she cared deeply for them.  She knows it’s part of what made her so successful as a prosecutor, the deep compassion she has for people.  It’s also what makes her an even better politician.  As she’s gotten older, she’s learned there’s a sweet spot, a ratio of compassion and toughness that gets results. 

She can’t exactly use the sweet spot method on Leo, though, because though she’s no expert on relationships, she’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to logic your way through them and that the whole point about being in a relationship is to _care_   about the other person.

“I bet you were a kickass lawyer,” a voice that is distinctly Leo’s says right behind her.  Even though she knows at heart that there’s no threat, she still turns on him, fully intending to clock him in the jaw because hitting people has, apparently, become her instinct as of late, but he pins her arms down by her sides.  By the time she realizes what he’s doing, she’s already come out of fight or flight mode.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, perhaps a little too harshly.  It’s just that she’s still mad at him for making her feel like mush.  He simply grins in response.

“I wouldn’t miss our nightly dinners for the world.”

She fixes him with an incredulous look.  “Yeah?  What about that meeting?”

“What about that paperwork you said you had to finish?” He shoots back.

“All done,” she lies.

“Uh huh…” He leans against the wall, and she realizes he’s traded his usual button down shirt for a black T.

“Leo, what are you really doing here?”

At that, he shifts uncomfortably, gaze dropping to his feet before flicking back up to meet hers.  “I wanted to apologize.  I uh… You’ve opened up to me about a lot of painful things, you’ve made yourself vulnerable.  The least I could do is do the same, if we’re gonna try to do this _thing_ ,” he gestures wildly at the last word, something that’s so uncharacteristically Leo she has to bite back a laugh. “And since we still have an hour before dinner, I thought maybe we could get some sparring in?”

“Hope you’re ready to get your ass kicked,” she does the smirk-smile thing again as she takes her gloves off, and her sudden playfulness catches him off guard.

“I’ll go easy on you to show how truly sorry I am,” he grins as they make their way to the mat.

“Don’t,” she says.  “This isn’t as unfair of a fight as you think.”

Her words sink in when he realizes he’s never actually sparred with her.  He’s gotten reports from her instructor and he’s seen her work the bag, but he’s never done this with her before.  He’d just wanted peace of mind, seeing how she handles herself first hand, but now he wonders if this is a bad idea.  If she beat him, his admittedly fragile ego might permanently be damaged.

But the way she’s smiling now, practically giddy, he can’t help but feel the embarrassment of getting beaten up by the President of the United States of America just might be worth it.


	8. 3/19/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo and Charlie spar, have a heart to heart, spar some more, then take their sparring upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am REALLY sorry this chapter took me so long. I was busy with the end of the semester, then it was finals, and then the holidays. But I'm back and plan to update regularly. Thank you for your patience, and knowing there are still people reading makes me so incredibly happy. Upon reading a wiki page for Leo Barnes, I realized the movie takes place in 2041, so the chapter titles have been updated to reflect that.
> 
>  
> 
> I do not own The Purge: Election Year. I'm writing this for entertainment and an not making any money doing so.

It's beginning to get ridiculous, Leo thinks, as he and Charlie circle each other on the mat.  They've simply been going in circles for the past two minutes, neither of them willing to be the one who makes the first move.  As he does whenever presented with a situation that requires physical combat, Leo sizes up his opponent as he's been trained to do.

 

He knows his own attributes: height, weight, knowledge, quick hands, experience, strength... if this were simply a battle of brute force, like with the criminals he's tangled with in the past, this would not even be a battle.   But what Charlie lacks in brawn, she makes up with brains, something Leo can't say he has a whole lot of in these situations. He's used to being the best guy in the room, and usually the biggest, too.  Charlie, on the other hand, is used to being the underdog- one that always comes out on top. 

 

She's treating this like a debate, he realizes, recognizing the look in her eyes that he's all too familiar with.  She's analyzing him, noting his strengths and picking out his weaknesses, preparing to pounce on them.

 

Charlie figures that if she can place a few well-aimed strikes, she has a shot at winning this.  She wants to make Leo proud, wants him to see that she can in fact take care of herself. Wants to dissuade some of his worry. She thinks he's anticipating a punch (after all, he's only seen her box). Knowing that fighting smart will be the key here, she decides to sweep one long leg under his feet.  He easily dodged her maneuver, having had suspects try it on him numerous times.  They circle each other another five times before she  extends an arm in an attempt to lock him into a hold.  He shoves her off, much too gently for her liking. 

 

"You won't hurt me, Leo," she says, her voice holding a good amount of annoyance. 

"I'm twice your size and a hell of a lot heavier. Forgive me for-" the next thing he knows he's on his back staring at the ceiling with the wind knocked out of him. Charlie's standing above him, looking both smug and irritated at the same time, and he really wishes he could figure how he has ended up on his back. It happened way too fast for him to have gone over her shoulder, nor does he think she's capable of doing so: he's too heavy and she's tall, so her center of gravity is too high.  Damn woman twisted his arm and pulled down, so he flipped over himself. That was the only explanation....

 

With a groan, he sits up.  "You've done karate," he says simply.

"Yes, I hold a black belt.  It was my hobby in college." She frowns.  "I figured you knew."

"Well, I didn't," he grasps her outstretched hand and allows her to help him to his feet.  He stares at her quizzically and says, “really?”

“Yes.  You know I hated feeling powerless that night.  I chose karate in particular because it teaches to avoid violence whenever possible but gives the tools to defend oneself when absolutely necessary.  And I also learned how to shoot a gun because I figured it was a good idea.  I’d hoped to never have to use one ‒I still do‒ but I wanted to at least know how to.  I knew what I was getting myself into the moment I decided to go into politics with an unpopular opinion.  I knew going after the NFFA would make me a target.  I also knew that until I got higher up on the political food chain, I wouldn’t have immunity on Purge Night.  So for twelve years, I ran on March 20th and didn’t come back until the 23rd.  I didn’t have a security team and even I knew it was stupid to stay put without anyone else with me.  I’m no match for a hit squad,” she laughs, trying to bring levity to the conversation.

“Jesus Charlie,” Leo breathes, her joke seemingly having no effect on him.  His heart aches at the thought of a young Charlie, still reeling over the loss of her family even years after it happened, all on her own and terrified.

“What did you do on Purge Night, before coming onto my security team?” she asks, knowing exactly what he’s thinking about and wanting it to stop.  Her intent had never been to hurt him, she just wanted to explain, to help him understand, since she knows he has trouble understanding her at times.

“Umm,” he shakes his head to clear his thoughts, “I protected my wife.  Before we got a divorce.  But uh, seventeen years before I started working for you, I almost killed the man who killed my son.  On Purge Night, of course, I wouldn’t just go and murder someone when it wasn’t legal.  My job was to uphold the law.  Janice ‒my ex-wife‒ didn’t want me to do it.  But I‒” he breaks off, his breath hitching, and to his horror, finds that a lump is forming in his throat.  He tries clearing it, but it doesn’t work.  He shakes his head, walking over to the benches, and sits down.  Charlie follows, but doesn’t sit down so that he can have some space.  “It just hurt so much,” Leo finally forces out.  “Every day I thought about him, you know?  He was the first thought that popped into my head in the morning and I’d fall asleep thinking about him.  And even in sleep, I couldn’t escape the pain, because I’d dream about him and all of the ways I could have saved him.  Kept him from going out that night ‒it was New Year’s Eve and I knew there would be drunk drivers on the road, but he’d turned eighteen on October 23rd and I couldn’t stop him.  He was a good boy, Charlie,” as he looks up from his lap at the woman standing before him, a tear falls from his eyes, eyes that look pleading, as if he just wants someone to know that his was an amazing human being who was worthy of life.

Charlie doesn’t quite know what to do ‒she never thought she’d see Leo cry‒ but she ends up rushing forward and hugging him as tight as she can and running a hand through his hair.

“I’m sure he was, Leo,” she whispers soothingly.  “What was his name?”

Leo pulls back, looking confused.  His lips quirk up ever so slightly.  “No one’s ever asked what his name was.  They just… cared about the story, wondering how it ended, not _who_   my boy was.”  He swipes a hand down his cheek and reigns himself in.  Normally he’d be completely and totally embarrassed by this display of emotion, but with Charlie, he knows she won’t judge.  Furthermore, she _understands_.  She’s lost her family, too.  “Will,” he smiles, the name leaving his lips for the first time in nearly two decades.  “His name was Will.”

“Tell me about Will,” she takes a seat beside him and reaches over for his hand, which he gives her without any deliberation.

“He was really smart,” Leo starts, pride igniting his features.  “He was a straight A student.  He wanted to be a judge.  He always said I’d catch the bad guys and he’d punish them.  He was a teenager so, you know, he’d do stupid things.  Sometimes he’d act out at school, get into fights.  I think that was because I wasn’t there a whole lot.  I couldn’t be, cause of my job.  And Janice and I had our problems again, because of my job.  But I loved him, Charlie ‒love.  I still do.  I did my best.  I can’t help but wonder if I had been there more, maybe he wouldn’t have felt the need to go out that night even when I’d warned him about the danger, wouldn’t have felt the need to assert his independence.”

“What happened isn’t your fault, Leo,” she says quietly.  “Look at me.” She has that soft yet commanding tone, the one that he knows means she isn’t kidding around, so he forces his eyes to meet hers.  “The man who got behind the wheel when he knew he damn well shouldn’t is the _only_   one at fault.  Not you.  Got it?”

“Yeah,” he nods and swallows.  They hold each other’s gaze for a moment longer before she abruptly gets up, walking towards the mat.

“So now that you know I’m not a delicate flower, will you _please_   actually spar with me?”

He grins, hoping she can see the ‘thank you’ written across his face for not letting things get too awkward.  Emotions really aren’t his thing and he’s grateful that she didn’t linger on the subject.  It felt good getting everything off his chest.

“Hey, I never thought you’re a de‒” she cuts him off with a look, so he amends, “ _Okay_ , look, I just didn’t want to get fired if I injured the President of the United States.” She knows what he’s actually trying to say: that he didn’t want to hurt _her_ , Charlie.

Normally, it’d irritate her, but coming from him, she finds it sweet.  They’re on the mat again, circling each other, and this time, it’s him who makes the first move.  He hauls her up onto his shoulder and she squirms and kicks, but can’t find purchase.

“ _Leo_!” She screeches.  She really wishes she could find something more eloquent or witty, but she can’t.

“Now I could carry you off to wherever I please.” He sounds smug, and she knows exactly how to get out of this.

“Great, so take me to your bed.”

He sputters and immediately puts her down ‒gently‒ and she laughs at the alarmed look on his face.  She kicks straight out, her foot connecting with his stomach, and he falls back onto his ass because he wasn’t prepared.

“You seriously used to be a cop?” She’s smirking, triumphant, and he could kick himself for how stupid he was.  He jumps to his feet and smashes his lips against hers.  She responds by pulling him in closer and deepening the kiss.  He shifts his weight slightly, just enough to send them both toppling to the ground.  He ends up on top of her like he’d planned.  He grabs her wrists and pins them above her head.  She looks at him with something akin a pout and this time, it’s his turn to laugh.

“The best cop the city’s ever seen.”

She’s quiet for a beat before saying, “I wasn’t kidding.  You, me, bed, now.  Except maybe my bed because it’s a hell of a lot closer.”

“As you wish,” he groans as he gets to his feet, then pulls her to hers.  They head back to her room, trying to walk at a normal pace.  As soon as her bedroom door is closed, they resume their horizontal positions from earlier.

For once, Charlie’s grateful for the ridiculously ornate and ridiculously _thick_   door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a little worried that Leo was a bit OOC, so any feedback on that would be greatly appreciated. I don't usually like putting notes at the end, but I didn't want to give any spoilers (small as they may be), so that's why this is here.


	9. 3/20/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo and Charlie's morning after doesn't quite go as they had hoped. Then again, when does anything they do go according to plan? Later, Charlie can't find Leo and is not happy about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! Thanks for all of your lovely comments on chapter 8, they mean the world to me. This chapter was done sooner than I had anticipated because I've decided to split it up into two chapters. I'm hoping to have the next one done fairly quickly. Admittedly, feedback does aid the process because knowing you guys are reading my stuff makes me want to write more stuff. In the future, I'm thinking the chapters might be longer than they have previously been, which means I might not update quite as fast, but I do think that increasing the length will be necessary due to where the story's headed, and that it will also hopefully make the quality of the chapters better, so just a heads up for that.
> 
> I do now own The Purge: Election Year.

Charlie awakens to the chirping of birds and the feeling of a warm body next to her.  The birds aren’t unusual, but the body is.  She recognizes the scent of Leo’s cologne and if that wasn’t enough, the arm draped protectively around her waist confirms that the body belongs to Leo Barnes.  She smiles and nuzzles into the crook of his neck.  The movement wakes Leo up, but he is careful to still appear asleep.  Clearly, Charlie doesn’t want this moment to end, either.  The fact that she feels so safe with him makes him inexplicably happy.

“Leo?” She whispers and he grins.

“Shh I’m sleeping.” 

She giggles ‒legitimately, actually _giggles_ ‒ and it warms his heart.  It’s a sound he’s never heard from her before (and he heard a _lot_   of sounds from her last night…) and he finds that he wants to hear it again.

“No, you’re not,” she says, rolling away from him slightly so they can have a proper conversation.  She’s propped up on her elbow, sheets tucked just below her chin, and hair mussed from sleep.  But she’s still the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“No, I wasn’t,” he agrees, staring into her eyes, trying to figure out what she’s going to say next.

“You never sleep past sunrise,” she answers his unvoiced question.  “That’s how I knew you were awake.”

“We missed dinner last night,” he says, climbing out of the bed and putting his clothes back on.  He looks at her apologetically ‒he’s not trying to run away‒ but she’s already out of bed and getting dressed herself, too.

“People are going to be worried,” she continues for him, and he nods.  “This is bad.  I mean ‒not us, not what… what we did.  That was very good.  But this‒” she gestures around them, “the whole nobody knowing where we went thing.”

“Yeah,” he lets out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding.  So she doesn’t think what they did was a mistake.  “I need to check in with the rest of the security team.  Tomorrow’s the 21st so I need to make final adjustments to the van.  And you’re going in it after dinner tomorrow‒”

“We.”

“Okay, yes, _we_   are going in it tomorrow.”

“Leo,” she walks around to the other side of the bed, her face uncharacteristically vulnerable, eyes fearful.  “It’s really happening, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” he nods, wanting to hold her close but not knowing if that’s what she wants right now.  So, he settles for gripping her shoulders, then running his hands up and down her arms.  “We’re going to be okay.”

“No, not that,” she says quietly, cocking her head to the side with a sigh.  “I got rid of The Purge.”

Oh.  _Oh_.

“You did,” he keeps gripping her arms because if he’s honest, he’s scared.  He’s seen her angry-vulnerable, sad-vulnerable, and scared-vulnerable.  But this quietness is something he has no idea how to handle.

“My family’s still dead, and it still hurts.” Her gaze is focused somewhere past him on the wall.

“Did you think it would stop hurting once you ended The Purge?” He’s been here before, knows what she’d been thinking.  He had once thought that killing the man who killed his son would make it hurt less.  He watches, helplessly, as something inside her breaks.  Her chin trembles for a moment before her jaw starts working overtime and he feels her entire body tense.

“I don’t know what I was thinking,” she snaps, her eyes flicking away from the wall to meet his.  “But I sure as hell thought I wouldn’t feel like this anymore.”

“Angry?”

“Yeah,” she sighs, deflating slightly when she realizes she’s lashing out at him.  He recognizes the unvoiced apology.

“You’re probably always going to be angry,” he says, finally letting go of her arms.  “I still am.”

“Leo‒” her voice hitches and she takes a couple deep breaths.

“Charlie, we can take a few minutes to‒”

“I can’t,” she forces out, tilting her head back as she blinks away the rest of the impending tears.  She’s practically shaking with the effort of keeping herself together, and Leo doesn’t like it.

“Charlie‒”

“I have a meeting in fifteen minutes that I need to get ready for.” He’s about to call bullshit when the alert, set for fifteen minutes prior to the event, pops up on her phone that’s sitting on the nightstand.  He gives her a ‘I don’t like this and you’re not okay so don’t pretend to be’ look which she returns with her patented ‘don’t push me’ glare.  When his face softens in response, she says, “I’m fine.”

“Charlie‒”

“Really, Leo.  You have stuff to do, I have stuff to do.”

“Yeah, but‒”

“ _Leo_.”

“Fine, fine,” he puts his hands up in surrender, backing away from her.  He takes a look in the mirror and smooths out his shirt and runs a hand through his hair.  “I’ll see you later, then.”

With that, he carefully slips out of her room, trying not to be offended that he was once again iced out.  Which is weird, because he’s never considered her to be an icy person.  Steely, definitely, but not icy, not even to her enemies.  It’s because Charlene Roan is a compassionate, caring person who believes in love, not violence.  Yet, to him, it seems all they do is fight.  Her whole hot-then-icy-then-hot-then-icy routine is confusing the hell out of him.  He knows it isn’t that she isn’t sure she wants him (she’d made it _very_   clear in no uncertain terms, last night, that she very much wanted him).  She’s scared, he’s scared.  But more than that, she’s only ever been in one relationship and it ended disastrously.  He’s divorced with many ex-girlfriends from before his foray into holy matrimony.  He’s not used to the ins and outs of a relationship because he was never really _there_.  He always had work as an excuse to blow off dates.  Janice had once told them, during one of their bigger fights, that he ‘had the emotions of a goddamn rock’.  The comment had stung, even if it was true.  But now, he works _for_   Charlie, so he can’t use work as an excuse ‒and he realizes he doesn’t want to.  He enjoys spending time with Charlie rather than dreading it, something he wishes he could have said about his time with Janice.  It wasn’t all bad, though, especially not in the beginning.  But after Will was born, things got stressful.  He was always working overtime trying to bring in enough money to cover the added expense of a baby.  That meant Janice had had to quit her job to stay home with their son.  Still, with Charlie, things are different.

But she will have a hard time with this thing they’re doing, he thinks.  She’s been on her own for nearly two decades.  She very much values her independence and is scared of getting hurt.  He’s not entirely sure she knows what the word ‘compromise’ means (hilarious, he muses, considering she’s a politician whose new job is to maintain the United States’ relationships with other countries).  He wants this to work, and he’s willing to do everything in his power to help that.  But he can’t force _her_   to try on her end.  If she doesn’t want this to work, then he can’t do a damned thing about it.  He understands her behavior from a few minutes ago better now, and he’s not as offended as he had been.  She’s opened herself up to him in the past, let him in and let herself lean _on_  him.  She trusts him, he understands that.  And now, he understands that she also has to know that she can still stand on her own as well.  That was what she’d been doing this morning, and that was her way of making him and her work. 

He chuckles lightly to himself as he leans against the wall, a few feet down from her door.  He wants to see for himself that she’s still in one piece when she leaves for her meeting, then he’ll go home and shower before coming back to make his final preparations for the next few days.  Her door opens and he watches as her eyes scan the hallway, looking for any danger.  His ego inflates just a bit, realizing it’s a habit she’s picked up from him.  She finally seems to notice him standing there, and she rolls her eyes, giving him her ‘I’m fine so stop bugging me’ look.  He sees past it, though, knowing she’s mostly fine but still a little shaken from earlier.  He gives her a nod, signaling he’s gotten her message.  With that, they each had in opposite directions down the large hallway, her heels echoing loudly in the otherwise quiet morning.

 

* * *

 

Leo always answers his cell, but today he isn’t, and Charlie tries to push down the panic that’s threatening to bubble up.  She’s seen him press the ‘ignore’ button for people he deems unimportant when he’s dealing with very important things, but for her, he _always_  picks up in no less than four rings.  She’s sent him five texts and left two voicemails and is about to call again when she thinks better of it.  _I’m a capable, secure, sane woman who has no lingering abandonment issues.  Leo’s probably in an emergency meeting and the last thing I need is for him to think I’ve gone off the deep end and can’t handle not seeing him for a few hours_ , she tells herself, choosing to ignore the voice that pipes up and reminds her that yes, she does have abandonment issues because her entire family was murdered and her boyfriend left her. 

She walks out of his empty office with a purposeful stride.  He always leaves a note if he’s going to go somewhere unexpectedly, or texts her.  In her opinion, he’s MIA, and that’s a huge issue.  Someone would absolutely try to get to her through him.  The idea that Leo could be out there, hurt and alone, makes her want to vomit.  She barely makes it to her bathroom in time to kneel on the floor and squeeze her eyes shut.  She takes slow, deep breaths, determined not to lose her ‒it hits her that she hasn’t eaten yet today.  Once she’s confident she’s not going to throw up, she stands and moves to the sink to splash water on her face.  Leo’s a big boy, he’s probably fine, she tells herself.  Deciding it would be completely unreasonable to commandeer one of the armored sedans and start a one woman manhunt for a guy who is, in all likelihood, perfectly fine and in no danger whatsoever, she starts thinking about where he might be that he wouldn’t hear his phone ringing.  It hits her that he, too, is probably stressed about the fast-approaching date of March 22nd, and needs to blow off steam.  That, combined with the fact that he’d cried in front of her yesterday and then they’d slept together, probably means that he’s doing something that’s familiar to him.  She doesn’t think he’s boxing, since he probably doesn’t want to end up in the same situation that they were in last night, so she decides to check the shooting range.  She’s about to leave her room when her gaze shifts to her nightstand.  She opens the top drawer and pulls out her 9mm, checking that it’s loaded and the safety is on.  She doesn’t anticipate running into any trouble, but she’s leaving the secure White House by herself without telling anyone where she’s going.  Plus, if Leo’s in trouble, she wants to be able to help him rather than end up in trouble with him.  And, if everything is perfectly fine and she finds him where she thinks she will, she’ll be able to get some target practice in.

Leo won’t be happy when she finds him.  He’ll probably go on a tirade about how she can’t take off by herself, and then bitch about how she shouldn’t own a gun.  It’ll teach him to not not answer his phone, she grumbles to herself.  Just as she’s about to leave, again, she stops.  She slips out of her navy blue dress and into jeans and a t-shirt.  She throws on the black leather jacket he’d given her for her birthday on and switches her heels for boots.  It’s not her most favorite outfit in the world (she still feels out of place in the jacket), but hopes wearing it might buy her some brownie points with Leo for going somewhere by herself.  He’s a simple man, she’s come to realize.  It doesn’t take much to make him happy, and seeing that she likes a present he’d gotten her will make him very happy.

And, if she’s honest with herself, that jacket _does_   make her feel like a badass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may be disappointed by the lack off... description of the previous night. That's not something I'm entirely confident I could write well, and I didn't want that scene to feel out of place due to what I believe would be sub-par quality writing. I may do more of it in flashback type scenes, so don't worry.
> 
> Not much in terms of plot happened in this chapter, but I felt that it was important to focus on the characters for a bit. I was debating, as I mentioned previously, about whether or not to add the more action-y plot-y stuff to this chapter or split it up. As you can see, I've decided to split it up, and I do think it's better for the flow of the story. Next chapter will be more eventful.


	10. 3/20/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie looks for Leo, finds him, then gets pissed off by him. Leo does damage control.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a super long chapter, so hopefully that makes up for how long it's taken me to post it (if I hadn't added the extra 1000 words it would've been up two days ago). Thank you for the kudos and comments! I've read that there a Purge 4 in the works but sadly Leo won't be in it since Frank Grillo doesn't want to do another movie. It looks like it will be a prequel to the whole trilogy. There's also the possibility of a limited run TV series. Fingers crossed that Leo and Charlie will make an appearance in that.

She heads back to Leo’s office and reaches under his desk until she finds the spare key for sedan #12.  Him and his superstitions and lucky numbers, she muses with a smirk.  This was the easy part.  Getting to the sedan and off the premises will be a struggle.  The security team generally isn’t crawling all over her because Leo’s pretty much always with her.  Surely he must have told them he’d be gone for a while and to keep an eye on her, then, right?  She thinks back to when she’d come out of her meeting.  All of the normal agents had been in their normal places.  None of them were following her.  But Leo _wouldn’t_   not tell someone to stay with her.  The anxiety she’d previously logic-ed away returns with a vengeance.  She strides down the hallway toward the elevator, fully intending to ignore every questioning glance.  Any one of these people could have played a part in hurting Leo, which she now believes he is, in fact, hurt.  The elevator arrives at her floor, and the agent inside looks surprised to see she’s not with Leo.

“To the basement, Ma’am?” She asks, most likely assuming Charlie wants to go to the gym.  Instead, the blonde shakes her head.

“Garage,” she replies.  She’s trying not to be too terse ‒the agent is only trying to be helpful‒ but she can’t trust anyone, not after what happened last Purge Night, and certainly not now that Leo’s missing.

“Is everything okay?  Where’s Agent Barnes?” Charlie finally registers that this is Agent Perotta, someone Leo thinks very highly of.  In fact, he’d personally recommended her.

“He asked me to meet him.”  Agent Perotta doesn’t seem completely satisfied with this answer, because her eyes linger on Charlie’s out-of-character clothes.  The blonde becomes self-conscious of the cold metal tucked in her jeans at the small of her back, concealed by her jacket.  If one of the agents were to notice it, they would surely flip out.  “He said he has a surprise for me,” she elaborates, remembering something Leo had once told her: if you’re going to lie, be specific; it makes it more believable than if you’re vague.  “Personally I think it’s a picnic of some sort,” she forces a laugh easily, having done so for many years, “but he wouldn’t even give me a clue except to dress comfortably.”

She’s quite proud of herself, having explained why she’s leaving the premises and why she’s dressed in a very un-President Roan way.

“And he’s alright with you going out by yourself?”

“I’m pretty sure by ‘meet me’ he meant ‘I’m going to follow you but you won’t know it’,” she smiles, relaxed and confident.  “He’d never do anything to put me in harm’s way.”

“Oh, I know he wouldn’t,” Agent Perotta says, her words rushed.  “I wasn’t insinuating…”

“I know.” Charlie reaches out and squeezes her hand.  The elevator dings, signaling they’re in the underground garage.  “Have a nice day, Agent Perotta.”

With that, she steps onto the cool cement floor.  Today, it’s unseasonably warm for March, but not record-breakingly so.  She grips the key in her fist, praying that she can avoid both of the agents that patrol the garage.

“President Roan,” a smooth, southern drawl greets her.  She internally groans.  Roy Edwards, one of the last people she’d wanted to run into on this little adventure.  Leo had told her he was a damn good cop and would make an excellent secret service agent, even if he had a few attitude problems.  She’s not a particularly violent person (though, as of late, she’s started to question that belief), but every time she’s had the misfortunate of having to hold a conversation with this man, she’s felt the urge to hit him.  Her big words and eloquent phrasing of not-so-thinly-veiled insults went right over his head and she soon realized the only way she could ever actually hurt Edwards’ ego would be to get physical.  Since presidents aren’t supposed to hit the people trying to protect them, she’s settled for simply acknowledging his presence only when absolutely necessary.

“Agent Edwards,” she says tersely, fully intending to breeze right by him to sedan #12.  Instead, he steps in front of her, effectively blocking her path.  Normally, she’d just step around him and make her life easier.  But right now, she’s pissed off and not at all in the mood for his games.  “As you can see, I’m going over there,” she nods her head in the direction of the sedans, determined to keep her cool.  She’s never shown any of these people an extreme reaction, and showing one now would clue them in to how bad the situation might be.  She knows what Leo’s contingency plan is in the event he goes missing: lock her in the bunker that’s 1,000 feet below the White House.  She’s said no, repeatedly, but knows that the agents have orders from him to drag her kicking and screaming if necessary.  She can’t let that happen, she _needs_   to get to Leo.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he replies and she wonders how the hell Leo could let this asshole work for her.  He’s not interested in personality, she knows, but in how well they can keep her safe.

“Normally, I tolerate you,” she begins in an even tone, but as she continues her tirade, her anger bubbles to the surface, practically boiling over.  “I don’t like you, but Leo trusts you so I put up with you because I believe in him.  But right now I don’t feel like dealing with you, so _move_.”

“It’s not safe for you to go out there all alone,” she swears there’s a crazy glint in his eye, “with nobody to protect you.”

That does it.  She’s not sure if it’s because his words hint that he might know why Leo’s missing, or if she’s just really sick and tired of everyone assuming she’s a porcelain doll who can’t take care of herself, but she snaps.  She clocks him in the nose with a right hook and as he doubles over, catches him in the ribs with a kick.  For good measure, as she walks past him, she grabs his arm and twists, like she’d done to Leo during their sparring session, and flips him to the ground with a satisfying thud.  He groans, and she knows he’ll have a few broken bones to look forward to.  She beelines for the sedan, unsure if he’s going to get up and attack her (she figures his misogyny-fueled ego won’t appreciate her beating him up), and yanks open the door.  Her hand shaking slightly, she shoves the key into the ignition and pushes the pedal down.  The tires squeal as she peels out of the parking garage.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Leo’s about to shoot off another round when he feels something jab him in the shoulder, _hard_.  He whirls on his attacker, fully prepared to unleash hell, when he’s met with blonde hair and blue eyes… eyes that show the person whom they belong to is seriously pissed off.

“I’m going to kill you!” she yells, ripping his earplugs out of his ears before holding up his cell phone, which he can now see has five texts and two missed calls.

“Charlie?  What’s wrong‒” he doesn’t get a chance to finish because she shoves him against the wall, and for a second he thinks she’s going to punch him again, like after he’d kissed her and then told her he’d only done it because she’s hot.

“I’m.  Going.  To.  Kill.  You.” Her voice is quieter now, but holds venom and each word is accentuated by her finger poking at his chest.

“I’m sorry I missed your calls, I couldn’t hear my‒ _did you come out here by yourself_!?” She’d come to a shooting range of all places, where she could get shot by anyone here.  “Charlie‒”

“ _Don’t Charlie me_!  I’m fine.  See?  Perfectly fine.  And yes, Leo, I still remember how to drive.  And we wouldn’t be in this situation if you’d answered your fucking phone!”

“Me?  You’re mad at me?  I’m not the one who has a target on my back but still left the safe space of the White House and came to a fucking shooting range of all fucking places!”

“Yes, I’m mad at you, because you decided to become unreachable and didn’t tell me where you were going or that you _would_   be unreachable, so I thought that someone abducted you.” She lowers her voice, suddenly acutely aware of the stares of the other people who had come to practice shooting.

“Everybody clear out!” Leo commands, and nobody has to be told twice.  “And if you try snapping a picture, I’ll shoot you.”

“ _Leo_ ,” she scolds.

“I wasn’t aware that I had to check with you to ask about everything I decide to do.” He’s being petty and he knows it.  Knows he’s wrong, _was_   wrong to take off and not tell her.  But she’s just nearly given him a heart attack and he’s a little angry about that, so he decides he can be petty for a few more minutes.

“You demand that I tell you where I’m going and what I’m doing,” she fires back.

“Because, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re the President of the United States.  You can’t just do what you want when you want.  Wait a second, you thought I’d been _abducted_?”

“I couldn’t reach you, and you always answer your phone when it’s me.  And if you’re going to be unreachable, you tell me.  And when you won’t be able to be with me every second of the fucking day like you insist upon, then you have another agent follow me around.  None of that happened, so yes, I was concerned.”

“Your concern, while sweet, isn’t warranted.  I’m not the kind of guy that gets abducted.” He smiles charmingly, but there’s a cockiness to it that doesn’t make her any less angry.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

At this, he knows she’s really mad.  And hurt, but mostly mad, and it’s his fault.

“Charlie, you shouldn’t have‒”

“Come out here by myself?  Yeah, you’ve already told me that about a dozen times.  I can take care of myself, Leo.”

“What about the three times you were separated from me on Purge Night?” He hates himself for bringing this up, for throwing it in her face, knowing exactly how she felt and how much it still hurts her knowing she couldn’t save herself.  But this is his last ditch effort for getting her to be more careful, for getting through to her.  She recoils like he’d hit her.  She quickly covers her reaction, plasters on the mask of indifference he hadn’t been subjected to in months.  And suddenly, he knows he may have crossed the line.

“One of those times I was in a car accident beforehand, from which I sustained a head injury which rendered me _and you_  unconscious.  The other time, you were also dragged into the murder-happy mob.  And, if I’m also remembering this tidbit correctly, there was a separate incident in which I saved _your_   ass.” She gives him one last withering glare before removing the handgun from her waistband, turning to the target set up down range, and pulling the trigger twice.  She then stalks off, not bothering to spare him a second glance.  Leo stares after her, wanting to jog after her, but his feet won’t cooperate.  Memories of that fateful night assault him.

* * *

_He’s fighting with some masked figure that had leapt out at Charlie ‒wrong move, pal, Leo thinks.  He’s aware of movement behind him, hears a ‘whack!’, then the telltale ‘thud’ of a body hitting the ground.  He turns around, prepared to slam the guy’s head into the cement, but finds him unconscious ‒dressed as Uncle Sam of all people, and Charlie standing above him, clutching a four by four.  She looks scared, surprised, and slightly pissed off, and he realizes she’d hit Uncle Sam with it.  He grins at her before motioning for her to follow him._

* * *

 

_Now they’re in the deli shop with Joe, Marcos, and Laney.  The crazy teenage girls are trying to break in, blasting that goddamn Miley Cyrus song that Will always complained his girlfriends would play.  He’s trying to get her to stay in the back and she, as usual, is refusing.  Not only is she refusing, she’s demanding he give her a gun._

_“Over my dead body,” he replies, hoping (praying) it’s the end of the discussion.  Instead, she sets her jaw and squares up to him._

_“Then you’d better drop dead.” At that, he relents, knowing the tone and the look by themselves signal she won’t take no for an answer; together, though, he knows she might quite possibly do something drastic, and tells himself it’s only because he wants to keep her safe and this is better than her doing something drastic, because Leo Barnes doesn’t get pushed around by anyone._

_“Just point and shoot, don’t shoot me,” he says, his tone indicating he’s not at all happy about the development.  She nods, taking the gun and aiming it at the door._

* * *

 

 

Leo now remembers thinking she’d looked far too comfortable with what should have been the alien feeling if cold metal and raw power in her hands.  As he retrieves her paper target, he knows why: both shots she’d taken are overlapped in the center of the bullseye circle.  Where the hell’d she’d get the gun, he wonders aloud to himself.  It occurs to him that he hadn’t heard the sedan squeal out of the parking lot, so he flicks the safety back on his gun, puts it in its holster at his hip, and meanders up to the SUV.  She’s sitting in it, staring at the gun in her lap, and he briefly wonders if he secretly _wants_   to be shot by the woman he loves.  He raps on the window as quietly as he can.  She doesn’t seem surprised and the locks click.  He tugs at the door handle and hops in before she locks the doors again.

“For a second I thought about shooting you,” she says lowly, and he can’t tell if she’s being serious or not.  “I don’t remember ever being that pissed off.”

“You didn’t leave,” he comments, not daring to look at her.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, “I need you, so…”

“You don’t need me,” he says, handing her the target she’d taken her frustrations out onto.  “This is proof of that.”

“All this is proof of is that I’m a good shot.  Doesn’t do much good when there’s a team of assassins trying to kill.”

“I’m a good shot, too, and it still doesn’t do me any good when there’s a team of assassins trying to kill you,” he smirks, and she finally looks at him, offering a small smile.  “Nobody could hold their own against a team of government-sanctioned hitmen with fancy equipment hellbent on killing them, not even me.  It’s a team effort, you and me.  Because you’re right: you can take care of yourself when it’s some asshole who’s decided ‒with very bad judgement‒ to mess with you.  You didn’t make it through Purge Night because of me, Charlie, you made it through because of _you_ : because you’re the type of woman that fights, physically _and_   mentally.  When you’re backed into a corner, you find a way to get out of it and if there isn’t one, you _make_ a way.  I helped, yes, but if you weren’t the amazing person you are, you wouldn’t have made it.  If you hadn’t figured out that Dwayne Bishop and his buddies were planning on assassinating the Minister at the church, I wouldn’t have known where to find you.  See?  Team effort.”

She laughs for a few moments before reeling herself in enough to say, “I should probably warn you that I told Agents Perotta and Edwards that you’d instructed me to meet you.  Agent Perotta was suspicious but kept her mouth shut, but Edwards was… problematic.  I had to, um… look, he’s going to be sporting a few bruises and possibly a broken nose and a few rib fractures.  So just… know that whatever he tells you happened, don’t believe him, okay?  He blocked me and well, I needed to get to you.”

“You decked him?” Leo grins.

“Just fire him when we get back, please,” she says.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he mock-salutes her as she puts the car in drive.  “Want me to drive back?”

“I remember how to drive, Leo,” she replies.

“Just… don’t get pulled over.  I don’t want to have to explain this to any of my old cop buddies.”

“I’m a good driver!” She sounds mildly offended, but he knows it’s mostly for show.

“I know you are,” he speaks as if he’s talking to a child, trying to placate her.  “Just answer this one question: where’d you get the gun?”

The fact that he doesn’t know will drive him crazy, she knows.  She intends to keep it a secret for as long as possible, let him think of dozens of crazy scenarios and work himself up when, in reality, it had been a completely non-exciting and legal purchase.  Plus, she’d be lying if she said annoying Leo hasn’t become one of her favorite pastimes.  So, she only offers him a smirk as she pulls out into traffic, taking care not to break any laws as they head back to the White House.


	11. 3/20/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo. Charlie. Bed (again).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this chapter took so long (when you read it you'll know why). It was a little more complex, plus I've had so much work these past couple weeks. I swear this semester is trying to kill me. On a bright side, we had a snow day, so I got a lot of writing in (and I have to say, it went some place I didn't mean for it to go).
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own The Purge: Election year and am not profiting from this fic.

Additional note because I can't put pictures into the 'notes' section:

Also, from the past two chapters, Charly mentioned liking the concept of Charlie in a leather jacket.  So, concept 1:

And (because Charlie with a gun is also great) Concept 2:

 

 

 

**Okay onto the story:**

* * *

 

They’re sitting at the table in the dining room, going between staring at their plates and staring at each other.  This… tension between them is different.  Yes, there’s always been _some_   tension; at first, it was irritation.  Leo and Charlie hadn’t seen eye to eye on many things and didn’t bother to hide that fact from each other.  Eventually, over the time he’d spent working for her, it had dwindled down to mild exasperation by Purge Night last year.  He’d come to respect her, and she’d come to decide to usually cooperate because he did, in fact, know what he was doing.  After Purge Night, everything changed.  The tension, while initially bred out of animosity, morphed into something more alive.  Its energy, once negatively charged, shifted to the right, becoming positive.  This rather abrupt change was no doubt a result of their feelings towards one another changing, as well. 

But the tension tonight is neither positive nor negative, nor is it neutral.  It’s something neither of them can put into words, but it’s been creeping in, filling the space around them like fog billowing into a scene in a horror movie.  And, just like the movies, it is an ominous, foreboding sign of what’s to come.

Charlie knows she should say something, anything, to break this silence.  They’d been teasing each other all the way back to the White House, but after he’d fired Edwards (but not before giving a low whistle of praise as he surveyed the damage Charlie had inflicted), things shifted.  Tomorrow they’ll be going on their road trip.  But she thinks this awkwardness has more to it than just anxiety about the next few days.

“What’s wrong?” she finally asks.

“Nothing,” he says after a moment.  He feels this shift between them, too, but doesn’t want to worry her.

“Something’s different,” she says softly.  She reaches out for a second, then pulls her hand back down to her lap. Leo looks down to where her hand had been hovering above his for a split second.  He sighs in response.  “Leo,” she says more urgently this time.

“I know,” he leans back, the spaghetti sitting all but forgotten in front of him.  “Look, I think… this is the first time we’ve eaten dinner since we, you know…”

“Had sex?” She helpfully supplies, one eyebrow quirking up in amusement.

“Yeah,” he breathes out.  “We’re a non-couple couple doing a couple‒y thing.  It’s… weird.”  She gives him an amused look.  “What?”

“You just…” she waves her hand out in front of her for a moment.  “You’re funny.”

“I’m funny?” He looks indignant, which only makes her laugh harder.  “ _Charlie_!” He snaps.  He does have a reputation to uphold, after all.  At that, she puts a hand in front of her mouth, silencing any more laughter that wants to bubble from her lips.  It doesn’t stop her from not quite being able to bite back a smile, though.

“You are,” she says once she’s gotten herself under control.  “When you’re not barking orders and grumbling, you’re quite funny.” He rolls his eyes and schools his face into one of indifference, but the fact that he can make her laugh spreads warmth throughout his entire body.

“Yeah, well, no giggling when we’re with other people, alright?  I can’t have my agents thinking I’m a clown.”

“I don’t giggle,” she responds instantly, forking a bite of chicken into her mouth.  He cocks his head, a small smile gracing his features.

“Yeah, you do, with me,” he leans forward, deciding to try his luck.  Leo can see she’s already slightly flustered ‒or at the very least, annoyed‒ at the accusation that she, President Roan, giggles.  He’s hoping that by invading her personal bubble, she’ll get rattled and then react in any number of cute ways.

“Only because you’re funny,” and there she goes, spinning it back around on him, and he leans back, knowing when he’s been beaten.  Then again… maybe not.

“It’s not a bad thing,” he says dismissively, going into ‘interrogation mode’, knowing what to say to get the reaction and admission that he wants.  “It’s cute.  Hell, _you’re_   cute when you’re giggling.”

“Leo!” She admonishes, but the effect is lost as her cheeks tinge slightly pink.  Whether it’s from anger or embarrassment, he’s not sure yet.  But that doesn’t matter; he’s getting under her skin and loving every minute of it.

“What?” He asks innocently.  Her eyes narrow, and he can tell he’s toeing the line between playful banter and arguing.  She shakes her head and drops her gaze.

“I think I’m going to go to bed,” Charlie says, moving to get up.  She’s held in place by Leo’s hand resting atop her own.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and she can tell he means it.

“Oh, you didn’t really do anything,” she tries to assure him, but even she can tell she’s not doing that great of a job.

“The key word being ‘really’.  So I did something?”

“Leo…”

“Charlie, please…” he swallows, suddenly very uncomfortable with this whole thing.  He can feel panic building, panic at the idea that he’s just ruined this incredibly fragile relationship they’ve forged.  Leo Barnes doesn’t panic, and he certainly doesn’t say ‘please’.

“I need some time,” she says quietly, praying he can hear the apology in her tone.  He sits at the table, alone, and watches as she walks away.  He looks to his side when he feels Max timidly step up next to him.

“She’s kind,” the smaller man says.  “Giancarlo and I like her a lot.  Other Presidents weren’t so kind.  I don’t think she’s upset with you.  She has been on edge all week, we have noticed it.  So you take care of her, alright?” Max pats him on the shoulder, and normally Leo would shrug off the contact and glare, but right now, all he can do is laugh humorlessly.

“ _Right_.  She’s not an easy woman to take care of, mostly because she doesn’t _want_  to be taken care of.  I try, Max, I try.  But taking care of her is like… I’m not good at metaphors, that’s more her thing.  But look, man, it’s hard.  Because one minute she lets me do something for her, or she listens when I tell her to get behind me, and then the next she’s whipping out a gun and beating the shit out of a secret service agent.  Or, you know, she’ll tell you that she’s scared, and you hug her, and then the next day she says she’s fine when you know she isn’t and you think she knows you know she isn’t but she still won’t admit it anyway.” He stops his rant long enough to look up at Max, who nods in understanding.  “Sorry, I… forget I said anything.” He gets up abruptly, self‒conscious and angry (Charlie would probably tell him he’s feeling vulnerable but he ignores that thought).

“But I imagine she’s worth it,” Max says as Leo reaches the door.

“She is,” he confirms.

 

‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒‒

 

Leo figures at 7:15 PM, Charlie definitely isn’t going to bed.  It might’ve been an excuse to leave dinner, but he knows there’s no way she’s sleeping (he also knows that even if she did try to sleep, she wouldn’t be able to.  Insomnia’s a bitch).  So, he makes his way to the basement to tell her to stop hitting the bag and talk to him, only to find it empty.  He frowns, concerned.  He then decides to check where she actually said she’d be.

He knocks on her door, hoping to get some kind of response.  Surprisingly, she opens it within a few seconds, and he quickly does a mentally inventory of her physical appearance: Harvard long sleeve T‒shirt, sweatpants, and her hair in a messy braid.  No injuries that he can see.

“I thought you’d tell me to go away or just ignore me,” he says, stepping into her room before she pulls him in like she usually does, staying careful of watchful eyes.

“At which point you’d proceed to camp outside my door or threaten to break it down,” she says, sitting on the bed.  “We’ve done this before, Leo, I know how it goes.  Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results is the definition of insanity.”

“Point taken,” he says, slowly taking a spot next to her so she has time to move if she doesn’t want him that close.  “So, you going to tell me what happened at dinner?” At that, she shrugs.  “I know you asked me not to push you, and I promised I wouldn’t, but… if it’s something I did or said, I can’t ignore that.  I made that mistake with Janice, and I won’t do it again.  Believe it or not, I’m a smart man, even though I didn’t go to Harvard.” He nudges her shoulder, and he earns a small smile from her.

“When you love someone, Leo, you give up little pieces of yourself to them, whether you mean to or not.  I think the idea is that you give them pieces of you and they give you pieces of them, and because opposites attract, you each gain something you didn’t have before and you both come better versions of who you used to be.  But the thing is, I like myself just the way I am.  I don’t _want_   to lose a part of myself, but I think I already have.  You… I’ve let you in, let you help me, let myself be vulnerable with you…  What happened at dinner wasn’t exactly your fault.  It’s just… I used to be a very reserved person.  Warm, but reserved.  And then you came into my life, and now you know what I’m feeling, you comfort me.  I just kind of realized that I’m the type of person that giggles now and then everything else hit me, and… it was a lot to take in,” she finishes with a deep breath.

“Yeah, that’s a lot…” he sighs.  “It doesn’t help that I haven’t been particularly forthcoming.”

“Leo‒”

“You like everything equal.  And you’ve told me so much, and I haven’t really told you anything. This morning, your little freak out was a result of that, I think.”

“I didn’t freak out,” she denies, leaping to her feet.

“You kinda did,” he winces at having to say the words.  “Or rather, you might’ve if you didn’t have a meeting to go to.  Personally, I still think you would’ve taken off, or kicked me out.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You were fighting so hard from breaking down this morning, and either you were going to kick me out so you could have some privacy or you would’ve taken off and continued to fight the tears.  That was you freaking out because you didn’t want to be vulnerable.  I’m guessing it’s because you feel as though you’ve been more vulnerable and open with me than I have with you.”

She’d started pacing halfway through his speech, and she doesn’t look like she’s going to stop.

“At first I was mildly offended,” he continues at her silence, “because you _have_   let me in so much the past few months and especially in this last week.  But then I got to thinking that maybe it wasn’t me.  Maybe you’re just scared and your instinct is to put your walls back up.  But it isn’t to keep me out.  It’s to prove to yourself that you don’t need me.  And then I was offended again.  But you know what?  You not needing me is great.  It means that you’re with me because you _want_   to be and that when you do let me in, it’s because you want to.  Most of the time, because you generally let me in, I feel like I always need to protect you and take care of you.  Sometimes, when you show me vulnerability, I forget how tough you are.  And then sometimes, like at dinner, or earlier at the range, you’re so tough I forget how vulnerable you can be.  So, I’m sorry for when I make you feel like I’m trying to smother you, and I’m sorry for when I’m insensitive and hurt you.  I promise that I’m never trying to take away any pieces of you, Charlie, because I love you just as you are.”

She cocks her head, grinning, before rushing forward, tackling him back onto the bed and kissing him.

“You are the sweetest‒”

“I’m not sweet‒”

“I’ll stop calling you sweet if you stop calling me cute,” she pulls back, and he lets her keep him pinned down underneath him.

“Deal,” he breathes.  He grins, too, and everything feels right again.  “Will you tell me where you got the gun now?” He asks, putting on his best charm smile.

“No.” At that, he flips them, and within seconds he’s the one on top of her.  She blows a lock of blonde out of her face and huffs.

“Why not?” He peppers kisses from her neck down to her bare belly, where her shirt has ridden up.

“Because it’s driving you crazy and I love it,” she says breathlessly.

“I bet I can drive _you_  so crazy you tell me where you got it,” he says, making his way back up to her neck.  This gets her attention and they lock eyes.  “I’ll bring you _so close_ ,” he rolls his hips into hers as he sucks at that sweet spot on her neck he’d discovered the previous night.  He feels her tense for a second before relaxing.

She doesn’t want to give him anything, doesn’t want him to know how much he affects her, so she bites back a moan and forces her face to remain uninterested, nonchalant.  Anything other than showing the excitement coursing through her veins.

“And then I’ll stop,” he stops moving his lips against her neck and is now back in her face, hovering inches away.  “And I’ll keep doing that until you tell me,” his voice is low and dangerous, his eyes hooded with longing.

“You won’t be able to keep that up for long,” she replies, proud of how sure and even her voice is.  He falters for a moment, not having expected her to fire back at him.  The other night, she had been more or less content to let him take the lead.  One night stands (from her college days), she knew how to do.  Making love?  Not so much, not when her only other experience with that was Brad.  He’d had years with Janice to know the difference between fucking and making love, even if  he pretended he didn’t know the difference.

Now, though, this is about control and a fight for dominance.  He should’ve known she wouldn’t give it up so easily.

“And why do you think that?” He asks, hoping to sound more cocky than he feels.

“You think you’re going to be unaffected by whatever it is you do to me?”

She’s right, as usual, but he grins wickedly anyway: “True.  But you’re forgetting something.”

“What?”

“That would require you to not give in to me before I give in to you,” he whispers in her ear, sending chills down her spine.

He briefly wonders how they went from timid lovers to threatening to withhold release so quickly, but all thoughts leave his head when he sees the stubborn set of her jaw (something he finds irresistible) and he knows she’s going to play this game (seems to think she’s going to win) and he’s determined to wipe that smug off her face and replace it with pure bliss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the pictures are from the tv show "V" (the reboot) and it's seriously amazing. It was only two seasons but just go watch it. If you liked The Purge you will love it. There's a relationship in it that is very reminiscent of Charlie/Leo and it is just one of the most awesome shows ever. And now I want to rewatch it.


	12. 3/21/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo and Charlie start their road trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long to write. It's double the length chapters usually are, so I hope that makes up for it. This semester is trying to kill me, so updates have been more sporadic than I'd like. The action will start to pick up now, so hopefully the chapters will come quicker. I appreciate all of your guys' support!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own The Purge: Election Year nor am I making any money from this fic. If anyone wants to pay me, though, that'd be totally cool. Maybe we can all chip in and buy the franchise so that we can turn it into a TV show with Charlie and Leo doing their thing during her Presidency. I'd be down for that.

“Walmart?” His eyebrow quirks up, and he’s supporting his head in his hand.

“Mhm,” she nods, laying on her back while he lays on his side.  Sunlight is streaming through the window, bathing Charlie’s hair in a golden glow.  She’d given him his answer last night, but he didn’t stop seeing stars long enough to actually question her about it before they’d fallen asleep, wrapped in each other’s arms.  Now, he can focus on annoying her just enough that her nose does that cute scrunchy thing that he adores so much.

“You’re telling me you got your gun from Walmart?” He still sounds incredulous, and she resists the urge to roll her eyes.

“Yes,” she responds, her tone indicating her patience is wearing thin.  “It was legal, Leo.”

“I don’t doubt that it was,” he replies.  “I just… _Walmart_!?”

“Why is that so surprising?”

He’s silent for a moment, thinking his words through carefully.  “People who buy guns at Walmart, in my experience… I don’t know, it’s just different.”

“The _people_   are different than, say, you,” she extrapolates.

“No… well yeah, but… I was an officer of the law who had zero intention of ever hurting anyone‒”

“Except for the drunk driver who killed your son‒”

“ _At the time of my purchases_.”

“I never had any intention of using my gun except for if my life was in danger.”

“So you said.”

“You don’t believe me?” Now she, too, is propped up on her elbow, staring straight at him.

“No, I do,” he says quickly.  “I believe you.  Forget I said anything.”  He sits up and swings his legs off the bed.

“Leo…” she reaches out and grasps his arm, stilling his movements.

“70% of the homicides I worked where the victim was female and owned a gun, she’d bought it from a store like Walmart rather than a high end retailer, so she didn’t have the proper training… and her weapon of self-defense became her murder weapon.  Clearly you know your way around a handgun, but still…” he shrugs self-consciously, “I hate the idea that you could have been one of those victims, especially since you _were_   on the run.”

“Only for a few days a year,” she says softly, rubbing her thumb along his forearm in a soothing manner.  “And I’m alive, Leo.  Nothing happened.”  In truth, she’s extremely grateful for this moment of vulnerability he’s giving her.  Last night, he’d challenged her control and she’d given it to him with less of a fight than she’d care to admit.  To be the steady one now makes her feel a bit better.

“Yeah,” he replies gruffly, and she can see him put his walls back up, apparently embarrassed with his perceived display of weakness.  She tightens her grip on his arm, not ready for the moment to end (and mildly terrified that he’ll be grumpy the rest of the day to overcompensate for what he’d just said, something that will inevitably cause a fight and she knows they can’t fight since they’re starting their road trip after dinner).

“I tried to fight back,” she says quickly, the words rushing out in a tumble.  Once he stops trying to get up, she continues, forcing herself to slow down and speak at a normal pace.  “When that man murdered my family, I wriggled and yelled and thrashed and… I did everything I could to try to stop him.  I was a lanky teenager, though.  That’s probably why he tied my dad and brother up first, he didn’t think my mom or I were threats.” She pauses, swallowing as if the act could force away all the memories bombarding her brain.  “That’s why I started doing martial arts, because as much as it was for my own protection and peace of mind, I couldn’t help but think if I’d known how to fight back then, then maybe my family wouldn’t have been murdered.”

“It’s not your fault, Charlie,” he forces his voice to be softer than it usually is, and wishes he could come up with something more profound.  He takes hand and squeezes it lightly, hoping to convey his gratitude for making herself vulnerable just to make him feel better.  He briefly wonders if this is how relationships ‒real, honest to God relationships‒ work.  As quickly as the thought comes, he pushes it away.  They aren’t in a relationship.  They’re a non-couple couple doing couple-y things who are most definitely _not_   in a relationship because both of their track records suck when it comes to relationships.

“I know,” she replies.  Through the gentle, patient smile he can see the politician face, the one she puts on in front of basically everyone but him.  He wants to push the issue because he’s seen victims of violence, knows more than his fair share about survivor’s guilt, but he doesn’t, knowing he won’t get very far.  In fact, all he’ll likely succeed in doing is pissing her off, and since she obviously is doing her very best to not piss _him_   off, the least he can do is give her the same courtesy. 

“Perhaps we should go find some breakfast,” he says instead.  His stomach grumbles, and he grins as she laughs.

“I’d say your stomach agrees,” she says, slipping out of bed, taking the sheets with her as she hunts around for her clothes.  He sighs, shaking his head a bit as bends down next to the bed and pulls on his boxers.  Seeing the white fabric pool at her fit and her stand in the middle of the room, biting her lip in confusion, melts away any irritation he’d had at her leaving him cold and bare.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, the smirk evident in his voice.

“I only have one meeting today, with the security team,” she replies somewhat distractedly.

“Great, so dress down,” he says in an effort to speed up the process of getting ready ‒he hadn’t realized how hungry he is.

“You’re wearing your clothes from yesterday.”

“Yeah, I have a clean suit in my office.  Here’s a plan: I go get changed, you get dressed, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen?”

“That’s great,” she smiles.  “Hey, you know something?”

“What?” he asks from the doorway.

“I’m the first president in over 150 years who isn’t married while in office.  It would be… lonely, I think, if I didn’t have you around.”  At that, he grins and heads off to his office.

 

* * *

 

 

He thinks about that statement as he makes his way to the east wing.  He thinks about the number of people she talks to during the day: staff, advisors, interns, reporters… the list goes on and on.  One thing he knows for certain is that she interacts with many people every single day and can’t imagine it getting lonely.  A piece of their conversation from the night before flitters into his mind.

 _They’re sitting on her bed, and he’s trying to fix the mistake he’d made at dinner, trying to tell her that it’s okay and he’s not mad and that_ they’re _okay._

_“You were fighting so hard from breaking down this morning, and either you were going to kick me out so you could have some privacy or you would’ve taken off and continued to fight the tears.  That was you freaking out because you didn’t want to be vulnerable.  I’m guessing it’s because you feel as though you’ve been more vulnerable and open with me than I have with you.”_

_He watches as she paces, trying to wrap her head around what he’s saying._

_“At first I was mildly offended,” he continues at her silence, “because you_ _have_ _let me in so much the past few months and especially in this last week.  But then I got to thinking that maybe it wasn’t me.  Maybe you’re just scared and your instinct is to put your walls back up.  But it isn’t to keep me out.  It’s to prove to yourself that you don’t need me.  And then I was offended again.  But you know what?  You not needing me is great.  It means that you’re with me because you_ _want_ _to be and that when you do let me in, it’s because you want to.  Most of the time, because you generally let me in, I feel like I always need to protect you and take care of you.  Sometimes, when you show me vulnerability, I forget how tough you are.  And then sometimes, like at dinner, or earlier at the range, you’re so tough I forget how vulnerable you can be.  So, I’m sorry for when I make you feel like I’m trying to smother you, and I’m sorry for when I’m insensitive and hurt you.  I promise that I’m never trying to take away any pieces of you, Charlie, because I love you just as you are.”_

_you’re with me because you_ _want_ _to be_

She’s with me because you  _she wants_ to be…

Oh.

 _Oh_.

That’s what she’d meant by she’d get lonely without him there.  He arrives in the kitchen before her, shaking his head.  Of course he’d get there before her.  The woman could be wearing a trashbag and no makeup and still be the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, yet she insisted on those uncomfortable-looking clothes (but damn it if they didn’t look good _on_   her) and light makeup.  He’d teased her once and she’d muttered something about looking professional.

“What will it be today, Mr. Barnes?” Max asks as sidles up next to Leo at the table, who ignores the incorrect prefix.

“The usual.”

“Loaded omelet it is, then.  And for President Roan?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Leo said.  “She usually gets chocolate chip pancakes, but today will be the day she decides she wants French toast.  She should be here any minute, though, and she can tell you.”  He wants to tack on that Charlie would bite his head off if he ordered for her, but lately she’s been sneaking up on him and the last thing he wants to do is start a fight.  So, he’ll keep his sarcastic comments to himself until the first light of March 23rd. 

“Is she feeling better?” Max asks in a hushed tone.

“Yes,” Leo nods, not wanting to divulge anything from their private conversation.  The pair turn their heads to the door, counting to three until they see Charlie’s head poke through.  They share a smile.

“Why do I feel like I’m missing the important part of a really funny joke?” She asks while sliding into the seat across from Leo.

“Without fail, we can always hear you three seconds before we see you,” Leo answers.

“My heels,” she smiles.  “I get it now.”

“What would you like for breakfast?” Max asks.

“Chocolate chip pancakes, please.”

“Great.” With a nod, he heads to the kitchen to place the orders with Giancarlo.

“I knew it,” Leo smirks.

“Knew what?” she cocks her head to the side, studying his appearance.  The all black suit-white dress shirt-black tie combo means he’s all business and will not tolerate any bullshit from any of the agents below him (not that he usually does, but some days he turns a blind eye to technicalities).  He’s acting pleasant enough, but she can see the worry behind his eyes.

“Chocolate chip pancakes.  You like to start your day off with chocolate when you know it’s going to be long.  The other days you either get French toast or regular pancakes, both of which you eat with syrup.  You don’t put syrup on you chocolate chip pancakes.”

“Stalker,” she smirks, taking a sip of coffee from the mug sitting in front of her.  It’s always a safe bet for Max to put their coffees on the table at 9:00 AM ‒black for him and cream with sugar for her.

“No, I just know your quirks.  I like your quirks.” As soon as it comes out of his mouth, he gets the deer in the headlights look and she laughs.

“ _Relax_ , Leo.  I know I reacted strangely last night, but you know what happened, and I’m fine now.  So stop worrying.”

“Okay,” he nods.  “The meeting’s at 10:00 so we shouldn’t lollygag here.”

“Do we ever lollygag?”

“No… but I‒”

“Hate being late, yes I know.  After the meeting I’m writing my speech‒”

“I still don’t like this‒”

“I agreed to do it via video broadcast.  I compromised, doesn’t that count for something?”

“Yes but‒”

“Leo, what is someone going to do?  Shoot me through the TV with a bullet made of electricity?”

“You never know,” he crosses his arms.

“You’re impossible, you know that?” She fixes him with a cool gaze, but he doesn’t back down.

“Me?  I’m not the impossible one.  I’m practical.  You, on the other hand‒”

“I compromised!” She hisses because, really, she should get credit for that.

“You take risks‒”

“Are we really going to have this fight again?” He can see her actively trying to cool her jets, so he takes a deep breath.

“No, we won’t.  It’s my job to protect you and that’s what I’m trying to do.”

“You’re smothering,” she says with a hint of a smile.  So she _had_   been paying attention to what he’d said last night.

“Right,” he nods and rakes a hand through his hair.  “Okay.  Sorry. TV speech is fine.” 

“So… what exactly are you going to say in this meeting?” She asks once Max has delivered their breakfasts, her voice steady, but he can hear the underlying anxiety. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone our plan.  In fact, they’ll believe I have you holed up in your room.  No one will be able to switch sides and try to kill you.”

“I don’t like lying,” she says softly, looking down at her half-eaten pancakes.  “My presidency has been built on always being truthful and transparent.”

“I know.  But the most important thing is you staying safe.”

“If I could trust my people, then we wouldn’t have to lie.”

“You have every reason not to trust them,” he assures her as gently as he can while also being firm.  “They know what happened last year.  All of them were personally vetted by me, and you know what?  They understand that you can’t trust anyone but me on this night.  They don’t blame you for that.” She offers him an appreciative smile with a hint of tiredness.  “Besides,” he decides to go for humor to cheer her up, “after the number you did on Edwards, no one here wants to cross you.”

“Good,” her lips quirk up.  “So, what do you say we go to that meeting?  I know you get hives if we’re not ten minutes early to everything.”

“I do not,” he rolls his eyes as he gets up.

“Do to.”

“Do not!”

* * *

 

They’re still bickering when they walk into the already crowded meeting room.  Upon entry, Leo puts on his no-nonsense tough guy face and Charlie falls into her usual politician routine.  All eyes are on them as they take a seat, her at the head of the long table and him to her right.

“Thank you all for being here,” she begins.  “While we’re not anticipating the amount of damage and violence that has previously occurred on March 22nd, we should still expect some.  Agent Barnes can go into this in more detail.” She looks over to Leo, who nods and clears his throat.

“Right.  President Roan’s safety will be handled exclusively by me and by me only.  I’m sure you are all well aware of what happened last year.  I don’t want a repeat of that incident, or you’ll _wish_   I’d just blown you up instead of what I will actually do.  President Roan and I will stay on the premises, but none of you will know the location.  Don’t ask, cause I won’t tell; it’s need to know, and you guys certainly don’t need to know.  Keep a watchful eye, make sure nobody gets on the grounds, shoot anyone if there’s any suspicious‒”

“Leo‒”

“ _Only_   shoot if it’s necessary,” he amends.  “The bottom line, keep her safe.  Whatever it takes.  And try to make sure the White House doesn’t get defaced this year.  In 2038 it took a whole week to get the spray paint off.  I shouldn’t even have to tell you any of this because it’s your job.  _So do it_.”

“Any questions?” Charlie asks, internally wincing at Leo’s lack of tact.

“Yeah,” a young agent in the back sticks his hand up.  “How are we supposed to protect you if we don’t know where you are?”

“ _Because_   that’s my job.  Your job is to make sure nobody gets to me so that I have to do anything about said person.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assures the agent.  “Just go about things the way you normally would.  Remember that heightening security too much would give the impression that I’m scared, which I’m not.  We ‒all of us, and I mean each and every one of you‒ make this presidency work.  It is built on the belief that people can be good and that we fight for what is right.  I can’t do that if we as a group are fearful of the potential for violence.  There are a lot of people who would love to see me fall tonight, find a way to try to prove I’m not fit for this office.  We’re not giving those bastards _anything_.” Before the room could erupt in applause (Leo always rolls his eyes at her ability to get a crowd to cheer with passion), he stands up.

“Any other questions?” Met with silence, he continues.  “Alright.  See you all in forty eight hours.”

He puts a hand on Charlie’s back and guides her out of the conference room.

 

* * *

 

 

“I’m running, Leo,” Charlie complains as she hoists. herself into the armulance ‒her nickname for Leo’s makeshift armory in an ambulance.  “I just got over telling the country that I’m not running, but I’m‒”

“You’re _not_   running,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time.  “Your televised speech was great ‒definitely inspired confidence and defiance.  Alright?  We’re staying in the city, just… staying mobile within the city.”

“I’m running.”

“No…” he sighs.  “Hiding in the bunker like I wanted you to might’ve been, well, hiding.  Leaving the country would be running.  This is some happy medium, okay?  We compromised.  You didn’t really want to do anything.  You wanted to just go about your day more or less.  And I told you it was stupid, because it is.”

“I have a responsibility,” she says as he closes the doors after doing one last check that the van isn’t booby trapped.

“To what?  Make sure everyone who’s on the NFFA’s side knows you’re not scared?  Show them that they didn’t break you?  At what cost, Charlie?  Your life?  Because one of these days, that’s what’s going to happen.  Someone _will_   try to assassinate you; it’s not a matter of if, but when.  And your little shows of defiance give any loony bin escapee the perfect opportunity.”

“You don’t get it, Leo,” she slumps back in the chair, clearly exhausted.  “They _did_   try to break me, but they didn’t, and they ‒Hell, even people _on my side_ ‒ use anything they can find to try to prove that I’m not fit for the presidency.  I can’t afford to show any weakness.  Best case scenario would be losing some respect from a lot of people; worst case would be getting impeached.”

“So your solution is to take risks that could cost you your life and, in all likelihood, my sanity?”

“So get a shrink,” she quips, but the usual teasing tone isn’t there.  Leo looks at his watch and resists the urge to huff impatiently.  He’d wanted to be on the road by now, but he acknowledges that Charlie’s mental state has to come first since they aren’t in any danger.  “That’s what they told me to do.”

“I don’t do shrinks,” he takes a seat across from her on the padded benches.

“Neither do I,” she scoffs.  “If it were reversed and you were President, they wouldn’t tell you to get a shrink.”  He remembers earlier in the week when she’d told him the story about how that was one of the first things Congress had suggested she do, remembers how angry she’d still been, months later.

“Probably not,” he agrees quietly.

“Ford cried during a tribute to his wife.  Clinton cried while listening to a speech by John Cox, whose wife died of stomach cancer because they didn’t have insurance, about how the country needed healthcare coverage for everyone.  The Bush’s both lost it multiple time on national TV, as did Obama when talking about the Sandy Hook shooting in 2012.  Instead of telling them they were unfit to do their jobs, they were praised for being brave enough to be vulnerable.  If I cried in front of anyone, I’d have congresspeople with pitchforks coming after me to get me to resign.  There’s a double standard, Leo.  If people think I’m running tonight, they will make it into a much bigger deal than if I were a Charles Roan.  They look for any sign of weakness and run with it.”

“I can’t quite… understand what you have to deal with… but I get what you’re saying.” He’s quite proud of himself, because her face lights up slightly and she seems alright with his response.  “Now I understand why you’re such a pain in the ass.”

“Shut up,” she hits him in the shoulder lightly.  He gets up and climbs into the drivers’ seat.  She does the same and plops herself down into the passenger seat, thankful that he tinted the windows so much.

“We can see out but nobody can see in.”

“Thank you,” she says softly.  “For doing this, I mean.  I know it was a lot of work and not your first choice, so… thank you.  I appreciate you, Leo.”

“Anything to keep you safe and happy,” he grins.  As he puts the car into drive and pulls out of the parking garage, he says, “no matter what those assholes say and no matter what you do or don’t do, never doubt your strength.  I believe in you, and I know you are the perfect person for this job.  You saved the country, Charlie.”

“Yeah, well, I couldn’t have done it without you,” she replies with a grateful smile.  “I hope you brought snacks,” she says after a moment.

“Seriously?”

“I know, I know, you’re always prepared.  I just figured you’re not going to want to stop for food anywhere and that we might as well make sure before we leave the‒”

“I didn’t say which premises,” he cuts her off.  “I was referring to the premises of DC as a whole, so… I didn’t lie.  _You_   didn’t lie.”

“Thanks,” she smiles.

“Can I start driving now or do you want to continue this little heart to heart?”

“No, go,” she gestures in front of her.

“Alright… you want to pick the radio station for the first hour?”

With a smile, she turns the dial and he groans as the static fades away into a clear melody.  This would be a long hour…


	13. 3/21/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo and Charlie's road trip gets off to a bumpy start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own The Purge: Election Year or its characters. I'm not profiting off this work.
> 
> This was one monster of a chapter (roughly twice as long as they usually are) but I just went for it. Actually, to be more precise: the chapter wrote itself, similarly to how my friend's dog will take the part of the leash meant for the human's hand out of said human's hand and put it in its mouth and walk herself. This chapter took the keyboard from under my fingertips and took off.
> 
> I'd appreciate any and all feedback. As the characters are dealing with different circumstances, I'm worrying that they're becoming OOC -so please tell me if you think they are! Or is any part of the plot confusing? Does the dialogue make sense? Or, do you just want to chat about the movie? Sound off in the comments section if you feel so inclined.

Leo lets his eyes flick down to the LED readout on the van’s dashboard for a split second.  He then rests his head against the headrest and resists the urge to sigh.  Half an hour… they’d only been on the road for thirty minutes, and he’s already sick of Charlie’s music choices.  106.7 claims to be “the best variety… today’s favorites, yesterday’s hits”.  Favorites and hits his ass.

“You’re not happy,” she turns her head with an amused smile playing at her lips.

“Sure I am,” he replies, hands tightening around the steering wheel.  “Well, as happy as I can be given the circumstances.”

“No, I don’t mean about Purge Night… err… whatever tomorrow’s called now.  You don’t like this station.”

“It’s not bad,” he says, convincing himself it isn’t a lie because his personal opinion of the station is that it’s awful, not bad.

“You’re good at reading people, I’m good at reading situations.  You’re tense ‒in fact, you’re practically radiating anxiety‒”

“I’m not anxious.”

“Whatever you want to call it, the point is, it has nothing to do with us on the road.  I’m empathetic, I know how people are feeling based on social cues and slight variations in body language.  You um, how do I put this… don’t.”

“Hey, yes I do!  That used to be my job, and I was very good at it.”

“So you keep reminding me.  But Leo, having a good gut instinct when it comes to people is very different than actually being good with people.  Look, my point is, the music is agitating you.  If you were upset about the situation, you’d be fidgeting.”

“I don’t fidget.”

“Yes you do.”

“Charlie…” he sighs, knowing she’s probably right.  And, if he’s being honest, he doesn’t want to start fighting with her right off the bat.

“My brother loved music from the early 2000’s. Of course, my parents grew up in the 80’s so that’s what they played, but Alex was born in 2002 so his young childhood memories involve NSYNC, Backstreet Boys, Britney Spears, and Avril Lavigne.  Actually, when he was six, he wanted to marry her.  It was the funniest thing ‒or so I’m told.  I was four at the time, so I don’t have any recollection of him talking about how he’d roll up to her on a skateboard and go down on one knee and ask her to be his skater girl.  And me, being the doting little sister, liked whatever he liked so that I could hang out with him and his friends.” He steals a glance at her, looking out the windshield with a faraway look in her eyes, and for a second he’s mesmerized.  But then he remembers he’s driving and he’s certainly not going to kill them by being reckless and hitting a tree.

“You guys got along?” he asks, both out of curiosity and because he knows she purposely switched their attention from the heated topic they’d previously been on.

“We did.  Does that surprise you?” she looks over at him now, the amused expression back on her face.

“No, not really.  Just, in the past when you’ve talked about him, you’ve always seemed somewhat protective of him, even despite the fact that he was a linebacker _and_   was older than you.”

“I never said‒”

“Obituaries,” he says quietly, slightly regretting even bringing it up.  “After I got hired for the position when you were Senator, I snooped around a little, I guess.  I liked your politics but I wanted to know if you were the real deal or just a poser.  I read about your family, and it talked about how Alex was MVP most games in high school and what his position was.  It also mentioned that he and your parents were ‘outlived by his younger sister, Charlene Margaret Roan’.  Sorry, if that was overstepping some sort of boundary…”

“No, no, it’s okay,” she says.  “I don’t blame you for doing that.  To answer your question, I was protective of his reputation.  He was the stereotypical troublemaker, but not many people bothered to look past the outside.  He was a good person, and I wanted people to see what I saw, because the Alex I saw was always loving, and caring, and kind.  To me, anyway.  We fought, like all siblings do, but at the end of the day, he’d do anything for me.”

“I’m sure he appreciated you having so much faith in him,” Leo says.

“He’d been planning on joining the police academy when he was killed.  Two years out of high school and he’d finally figured out what to do with his life.”

“He’d catch them and you’d get them convicted?”

“Just like Will said that you’d catch the bad guys and he’d punish them,” Charlie offers Leo a warm smile, echoing the story he’d once told her in his rare moments of openness.

“Damn, we’d all have been such a great criminal justice team,” Leo says, heart swelling at Charlie’s mention of his son ‒that she remembers such a little thing he’d said about Will‒ but admitting that is just a little too much right now.

“We would have,” she agrees softly.

“What was your craziest case?” Leo asks.

“What?”

He shrugs and rephrases, “what was the craziest case you ever prosecuted?”

“Oh wow,” she laughs, “umm… string of murder suicides,” she says after a few moments of deliberation.  “Over a ten year period, there’d been twenty two of them.  They were all seemingly unrelated… different states, different murder weapons, ethnicities, number of family members, different, well, _everything_.  In fact, the only similarity was that there was never any extended family.  There was nobody to insist something else had happened.  An FBI agent who was called out to insist in one of the investigations noticed the crimes only happened in small towns without the people power to launch a full scale investigation and make sure a murder suicide truly took place.  So, he took a look at the bigger picture and since the crimes crossed state lines, it became a federal matter.  Turns out, the same FedEx guy had delivered packages at the victims’ houses within one week of their murders.”

“Forensic evidence?”

“Virtually none.  The judge only granted a warrant to arrest and charge him because of witnesses placing him outside the houses potentially casing them.  They were all in different states, and the company confirmed they absolutely did not have him delivering to Idaho from the DC area.  So, we at least had him on lying to a federal agent.  In the fifth murder, a knife was used.  It didn’t have any of the family members’ fingerprints on it, meaning it had been wiped clean.  From that, we were able to convince the jury that these were not murder suicides but in fact plain old murders in which the father was framed for the slaying of his family.  What FedEx guy failed to realize is that when you should someone, blood spatters.  He was hit ‒either in a cut or his eye‒ and was infected with HIV.  The thing about HIV is, it has a high mutation rate, so everyone’s strain is slightly different from another’s.  In that sense, you can trace back to patient zero.  We were able to establish he and Mark Winters had bodily fluid contact with each other and since Winters hadn’t had intercourse of any kind prior to his death, everyone was convinced there possibly was a struggle between FedEx guy and Winters.  That was all the evidence we had, and it was pure hell trying to convince a jury that the guy did it.”

Leo lets out a low whistle.  “We’ve lost cases with far more evidence than that.  You won right?”

“Yes,” she nods.  “Some days I still wonder how.”

“Because like I said, I bet you were a kick ass lawyer.”

“What about you?” Charlie asks, fiddling with the radio again as 106.7 goes on a commercial break.  “What was your craziest case?”

“I once had a guy who thought he was Jesus reincarnated running naked through Central Park.  I was responsible for tackling and subduing him since I was just a patrol cop at the time,” he cringes at the memory.  “Definitely not a fun night.”

“I can’t imagine it would be,” she laughs, spinning the dial all the way back to 105.5.

“Wait!” he exclaims, eyes wide with excitement.  “This is Led Zeppelin!”

“And you said what _I_   listen to is old!?”

“It’s not that old,” he says.

“Leo, they were popular over sixty years ago.”

“Whatever, they still produced quality music and I still like it.”

“Hey, to each their own, I’m just saying…” she holds her hands up in surrender.  They continue driving in silence for a few minutes, enjoying the music, when his phone rings, an annoyingly shrill sound a stark contrast to what Charlie is finding herself considering good music.

“Barnes,” Leo all but barks into the phone, apparently quite irritated at his moment of tranquility being interrupted.  “No, we’re all set.  No, don’t come down ‒I repeat, _do not_   come to the bunker.  The President doesn’t want a repeat of last year…. Yeah, which is why no one is to come check in on us.  Everything is fine, Parotta.” He hangs up and huffs.

“Something wrong?” She asks, turning her attention from the road back to her partner. 

“No, the other agents just… well, they’d feel better if they could have eyes on you, too.  And they’re very pushy.”

“It’s their job, Leo,” she places a calming hand on his forearm.

“You trust me,” he says after a moment, without preamble. 

“I think that’s already been established multiple times.”

“No, it’s not a question, it’s a statement.  On Purge Night, you never questioned my judgement, just my morals and at times, my behavior.  You’ve implicitly trusted me from the beginning and as we’ve talked about, I’ve come to realize you don’t trust _anyone_ , let alone implicitly.  Yet you went along with what I told you to do when we were running for our lives, and you did so without argument.  Except for when we were in the deli, you actually stayed behind me and let me do the fighting and shooting, which you’ve clearly displayed wasn’t entirely necessary.  So that begs the question, for someone who is obsessed with being in control of every aspect of her life, why did you trust me to take care of you, and why did you _let_ me?” It’s a bit loaded, he realizes, but he’s been wondering about it and he figures now is as good a time as any to ask, seeing as they’re once again out on the streets to keep her safe.  He needs to know _why_ , so he doesn’t do something to screw up that trust.

“I just do, Leo,” she shrugs, a so un-Charlie-like movement that makes him wonder if he’s gotten himself into another pickle.  “I hand-picked you to be my head of security based on your stellar service record.  In your interview, you didn’t bullshit me, and I appreciated that.  You’d always been honest, so I had no reason to doubt your intentions.  But, the biggest thing was, you respected me.  At the end of the day, I had the final say, and I knew you had experience with evasion.” She shrugs again.  “I had your respect, Leo.  There was no need for me to demonstrate my abilities.  And clearly, you’re very good at your job.  You never gave me a reason _not_   to trust you.”

Her answer makes him smile ‒just a little‒ and he’s satisfied for now.

“I suppose you’ve been around enough politicians to know when someone’s intentions aren’t entirely pure,” he says, trying to play it off like it’s no big deal that she trusts him so much.  He catches the twinkle in her eye, the smug set of her jaw, and he knows that she knows he’s secretly very happy.  For his sake, she chooses not to comment on it.

“Not last year.” She’s surprising even herself, bringing up what happened like that.

“Well, to be fair to you, they were completely on your side till the NFFA paid them ten million each.  Which… they were only approached that night, and you didn’t have a whole lot of time with them…”

“But you did,” she finishes quietly, knowing exactly where his train of thought his heading.  “It’s not your fault either, Leo.” She wants to take his hand, but it’s on the steering wheel, and she knows how serious of a driver he is, not letting himself get at all distracted ‒not after what happened to his son‒ so she leaves her hand in her lap.  “I don’t blame you, though I do know you blame yourself, and you shouldn’t.”

“It was my _job_   to protect you,” he says quickly.

“And you _did_ ,” she stresses, “if you didn’t plan for a betrayal with that trap door, we’d both be dead.  And you kept me safe on the streets.  You did your job perfectly.

“No, cause the Minister still got you.”

“He didn’t kill me.  You came through, in the end.  That’s all that matters to me.  Without you, I wouldn’t have survived the night.  Instead of focusing on what you did not so well, focus on what you did: kept me alive.  That was your one goal, and you made it.”

“It’s not that simple, Charlie,” he argues, but his voice lacks the irritation his voice carries when they usually argue.  Instead, he sounds more resigned.  “You got hurt multiple times‒”

“I’m fine‒”

“Still, you got hurt.”

“It happens,” she says, and that finally gets him to stop and think for a moment.  “You can’t wrap me in bubble wrap and pad all the sharp corners of the White House.”

“That mob had multiple guns to your head and that asshole had a knife to your neck,” he grits out, knuckles a stark white against the black steering wheel.

“I’m aware,” she quips, hoping he’ll snap out of this.  But, it turns out, he’s legitimately upset  and she’s got no choice but to try to get it through his thick skull that he doesn’t have anything to be sorry for.  “I’m not scarred for life,” she tries again when he doesn’t respond.  He flicks his eyes over to her neck, gives her a pointed look, and sets his gaze back on the road.  “Okay, well, I was talking metaphorically,” she runs a finger along the faint white scar.

“You have nightmares,” though he phrases it as a question ‒and the casual way he says the words‒ suggest he’s asking a question, she knows it’s also a statement.  She’s seen him use it to confuse people ‒does he know or does he not know‒ into accidentally giving him information.  She knows a non-answer will give him more than she wants to right now.  The last thing she _wants_   is to hurt him and make him feel worse.

“You would too if your entire family got slaughtered,” she says with more of an edge to it than she meant.

“I was talking about last year.” He knows it.  He knows she knows what he’d meant.

“Your job wasn’t to protect my mental state, it was to protect me physically, and mission accomplished.  And you won’t get that, nor will you listen to it, and I sure as hell can’t say anything to make you think you didn’t do anything wrong.  Leo, look,” she sighs, reining back the sudden flare of anger, “I almost lost my life the night my family was murdered.    More psychos tried to kill me again last year.  To speak in the modern vernacular, ‘big whoop’.  And guess what?  More people are still going to try to kill me, probably for the rest of my life.  I’m more or less used to it.  I’m not traumatized by last year, so _please_   try to stop worrying.”

“I see it all the time,” he says after a moment, his voice softening, “and I know what you’re doing ‒I appreciate it‒ but I find it very hard to believe you’re perfectly fine.”

“You went through the same things I did last year‒”

“No, I didn’t have a target on my back, I just happened to be standing in front of said target most of the time‒”

“Leo‒”

“I’m used to being shot at.  I’m used to getting the shit beaten out of me.  I’m used to all the violence‒”

“We’ve been over this,” she says, voice low and dangerous, and a part of him really wants to drop it.  But dropping it would just let it fester until it blew up, most likely at the least opportune of times.

“Yeah, I know, you’re not some doe-eyed fawn, but the point remains, my _job_   was life and death situations.  I know how to compartmentalize that‒”

“Like that’s a healthy habit‒”

“But you are constantly reminded of the murder of your entire family _every year_ , and last year, someone was trying to kill you on the _anniversary_   of your family’s death.  I can’t imagine what that must have been like, and maybe if I’d been able to spot the betrayal, and you could’ve just stayed in your office, I don’t know, maybe it wouldn’t have been as bad of a night.”

“Well _no shit_ , because it’s always a much better night if people aren’t shooting at you and preparing to slit your throat!  And what about you, huh?  You planned to _murder_   ‒in cold blood‒ the drunk driver who killed your son. You call _that_   a healthy coping mechanism?”

“But I didn’t follow through with it!” He pulls over to the side of the highway, putting the hazards on.  He’s not risking an accident because he’s too caught up in this little spat.

“And that makes it so much better?” She laughs hollowly.  “What have I done ‒or not done‒ that makes you think I’m traumatized or something?  You worry far too much.”

“Well _somebody_   needs to worry about you because you refuse to!” His chest is heaving, and she knows this might be hitting a bit too close to home.  How they’ve gone from her telling him how much she trusts him to this, she’ll never know.  What she does know is they need to get their daily fight quota out of their systems if they want to have clear heads for tomorrow.

“I worry just enough,” she says, visibly trying to calm down.  Leo thinks he should probably do the same, but he isn’t quite ready to let go of the anger.  It’s far easier to feel anger than to let the fear creep in.

“Yeah, about your reputation.”

“I’m the _President of the United States_ , of course I have to worry about my reputation‒”

“But not with me you don’t.  Not with me.  So why don’t you start telling me the truth?”

“I haven’t lied, you just have it in your head that I must be upset about what happened.”

“Any sane person _would_   be!”

“Oh, so now I’m insane?”

“No…” he sighs, then says, “I know when people are lying, that was my job before deciding to protect you.  And I’ve seen enough of my partners ‒my _friends_ ‒ deal with issues after a traumatic event.  And when you confront them, they react exactly as you did.  I know you don’t want me to blame myself, and I can’t promise you I won’t, but I can promise you I’ll _try_.” He hopes it’s an adequate peace offering.  She’s still tense, but she at least seems to be happy that he’s trying.  “I didn’t mean to imply that I think you’re insane,” he adds quietly.  “I guess I was trying to say you’re complicated.”

“My family was murdered right in front of me,” she says, her voice equally as quiet.  “And the man did some things to me too ‒hit me, cut me, burned me…  After he shot them all, he turned to me, still wearing this creepy mask, and just cocked his head, staring at me.  He stayed like that for what felt like forever, then calmly walked out the front door like he didn’t just kill three people.  I had survivor’s guilt for a good year after that.  I dealt with it by focusing all my energy into making the world a better place by putting criminals behind bars.  Granted, at the time, I focused on taking the steps to get to where I wanted to go, but… I didn’t see a therapist, I didn’t talk to anyone about what happened.  My boyfriend had left me high and dry, and I… I don’t know, I convinced myself that I could handle it on my own.  Whether or not you think my plan worked, I don’t know.  But I did what I had to do to survive, Leo.  I know you can understand that.”

“I can,” he nods, feeling comfortable enough to pull back onto the highway.  It’ll also give him a task so he can distance himself a tiny bit, feeling like he’s being privy to something she doesn’t necessarily want him to know.

“And,” Charlie adds, “the reality was, I needed to toughen up if I wanted to be a prosecutor.  Because, well, you know why I was surprised my mom didn’t pick Alex.  I guess my way of doing that was by _forcing_   myself to be okay.  So, that’s all I know, Leo.  I went from crying over so many sappy or MSCPA commercials that I once threw a glass of water at my brother’s head because he teased me one too many times to the best federal prosecutor DC had seen in nearly 50 years ‒the type of prosecutor who was ruthless… the type who looked serial killers in the eye and didn’t flinch.  I can’t exactly say I’m _proud_   of that, but I still have my compassion and empathy, and that has got to count for something.” She pauses to take a breath and formulate her thoughts.  “I’m probably not okay with what happened last year.  But all I’ve done for the past nineteen years is push it all to the back of my head, lock it in a box, and move on.  I’m not trying to lie to you, I just… it’s how I deal with things.”

He’s always taken her to be an open person, caring, emotional to a point.  But, he’s come to realize it’s more of a front, like his no-nonsense tough-yet-witty sarcastic streak.  She gives as much as she feels comfortable giving and uses her natural charisma to her advantage.  Because yes, she cares about the country and its citizens and she _does_   want to make things better and she _does_   let her compassion show with the voters.  But they don’t see the side of her he’s come to see, the side that is hurting and scared and frustrated and angry and pissed off.  She doesn’t show them the negativity.  He’s envious of her ability to make people think they know her, of the way she can make people think she’s open when in reality, she hasn’t really told them anything too personal.

“I never would have guessed we’re more similar than we are different,” Leo says.

“I wouldn’t say _that_ ,” she smiles a little.

“I’m rubbing off on you,” he shoots her a grin.

“You are _not_.”

“Ask the punching bag, I’m sure it’ll disagree with you,” he says.

“I still see the masked man’s face,” she says, apparently not entirely done with their conversation.  “That’s why I hate masks so much.  What happened last year… if Owens didn’t try to kill me, I’m not sure I would have won the election.  And it’s another thing I can add to my ‘list of things I’ve survived’ so it’s… okay.  I know you’ll probably always feel some guilt, but I'm okay with what happened.  It doesn’t mean I might not get nervous or anxious sometimes, but if I could choose to do a do-over, I wouldn’t.  Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, finally feeling a little more peaceful about the whole thing ‒not that he’s not going to kick himself occasionally because of what he let happen‒ but if she really _is_   okay, that’s all he cares about.

“Leo?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s your turn to pick the radio station.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't know how old Charlie and Leo are meant to be in the movie. In this story, Charlie's family died when she was 18, and this story takes place 19 years after that (movie starts 18 years after their deaths, this story is one year after the movie). So, that places Charlie at 37, which means she was born in 2004 (KEEP IN MIND THIS TAKES PLACE IN 2041) and her brother Alex was born in 2002 since he's two years older than her. To my knowledge, the movie has never given a concrete age for Leo. But, I think he's older than Charlie. In the movie, it says that it takes place 17 years after Anarchy, and since my take is that Will was 18 when he died, that was 36 years ago. So, let's say Leo joined the police academy at 18 and married Janice around that time. Let's also say he was 20 when Will was born. That puts him at 56, which makes sense to me since I've always pictured him being at least ten years older than Charlie. I just wanted to explain the year I picked in this chapter and how I arrived at those dates (I didn't just pick out numbers willy nilly, there was some logic lol).
> 
> Also, I apparently love Leo and Charlie bickering/fighting. There's just something so raw about them when they do that, and I find it fascinating yet challenging to write for, especially as their feelings for each other get deeper and deeper. How far is too far? Will you keep your secrets? Dun dun dun... more to come!


	14. 3/21/41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leo talks about Will, accidentally confesses to having seriously considered kidnapping Charlie, and a flashback to when they first met.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are over! I may or may not be starting a new job in a month! So, in the meantime, hopefully lots of time to write! This is a really long chapter, so I hope it was worth the wait. Also, feedback makes me write a lot faster. Hint hint wink wink.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own this movie. I really wish I did, but I don't.

Forty five minutes into his hour with the radio station, _You Give Love a Bad Name_   comes on, and Leo instinctually turns the dial to the right with more force than necessary.  He can feel his entire body go rigid, feel the air become thick with tension ‒only this time, it’s not the type of tension born from their bickering.  Charlie waits a few minutes before reaching over tentatively and putting a hand on his forearm.

“You know I don’t like to be touched when I’m driving,” he says with an edge to his voice that she doesn’t like one bit.  She’s pretty sure the song reminded him of Will or something, so she knows _why_   he’s suddenly lost his levity, but she still wants to fix it.

“You also don’t like to be upset when you’re driving,” she says in a placating tone, trying to reason with him.  For all their fighting and scathing remarks and heated looks, they know when to back off and keep things from escalating.  “Do you want to talk about it?” She knows what the answer will be (no), knows she’ll then prod him a tiny bit, and he’ll eventually say one or two sentences to keep things even ( _you like everything equal.  And you’ve told me so much, and I haven’t really told you anything…_ ) but then they won’t talk about it again.  It still irks her, to an extent, that he expects her to talk about herself so much but to get anything from him is like pulling teeth.

She takes a calming breath, reminding herself that this is just the way he is, the way he’s likely always been, more or less. 

“No,” is his immediate reply, and she draws in another breath and works to keep her face neutral (because the all-too familiar anger is starting to boil in her stomach, and the last thing they need is a screaming match).  She wants to be kind, and compassionate, and all those qualities he’d once listed off as to why he likes her, but right now all she can feel is irritation.  It surprises her, because usually she’s very good at locking away her anger at other people’s idiocy.  Then again, this time of the year always puts her on edge… as does Leo.  Something about him gets under her skin in a way no one else can and heightens all of her emotions.  When she feels happy around him, she’s practically giddy.  When she’s annoyed, well, that leads to irritation which usually leads to their fighting.

“You’re right, I do like things equal,” she says and waits for him to understand.  After a few seconds, she watches his jaw clench even more (and she really hadn’t thought _that_   would be possible), and knows he gets it.  In typical Leo style, he stubbornly stays quiet and focuses on the road.  “And I get that talking about things doesn’t exactly come naturally to you.  You like being the protector, the strong one, and that _does_   come naturally to you.  You can do that.  But you don’t do so well outside of your comfort zone, and that scares the shit out of you.  You said that you know _I’m_   trying to make this… thing that we have work.  But what are _you_   doing to make it work?”

He would like to say ‘put up with you’ but keeps his mouth shut.  He knows enough to at least think of a _good_   response.  But, she’s right, and he knows it.  Ultimately, he decides that he treasures her more than his macho reputation.  He takes a steadying breath before opening his mouth to explain his actions.

“I… Look, it’s hard for me not being with you 24/7.  Nobody _meant_   to hurt Will, and look what still happened to him.  People plot to kill you every day, and… you need your space, and I give that to you even though every second I’m not next to you terrifies me.  You don’t always like being protected, so I back off when I can even though it causes me a great deal of anxiety to do so.” He pauses to take a few breaths.  “The song on the radio was by Bon Jovi.  Will and I listened to them all the time.  And I… I don’t like listening to them now.”  He holds his breath and prays ‒momentarily forgetting he’s not quite sure he believes in any sort of deity‒ that he’s given her a satisfactory answer. 

He’s never quite sure which Charlie he’s going to get: warm and forgiving or hard and angry.  She’d been right; leaving his comfort zone of the stoic protector is not something he likes to do.  In fact, he actively avoids it, so naturally he’d told her he didn’t want to talk about the song.  It would have been so much simpler to just tell her, but he’d opted not to.  No matter how bad he thinks he’s had it ‒drunk and abusive father, dead son‒ he often finds himself believing she’s had it worse because if he’s being honest, he doesn’t know if he’d have been able to survive his entire family being murdered at eighteen years of age.  He knows she’d disagree, and even he doesn’t like to try to quantify the extent of a trauma, but knowing everything he knows, well, it tips the scale in favor of her having a shittier life.  As awful as his son’s death was ‒and his subsequent divorce‒  he’s accepted what happened, has started to move on (or as much as he thinks a person can from a tragedy like that).  He sees that for her, the nightmare isn’t over, and likely never will be, because people will never stop trying to take her life.  Because her pain is the basis of her presidency… at least nobody but him, Janice, and Charlie know about his own pain of losing his son.  He’s not sure he’d still be sane if in every professional conversation, his son’s death had come up.  The fact that he can’t let her in, can’t open himself up to get hurt again, yet _she’s_   trying to hard when she, arguably, has more to lose emotionally, makes him feel incredibly guilty.  He’s about to contemplate what would have been so difficult about saying ‘this song reminds me of Will, so I’d rather not listen to it’ when her voice cuts into his thoughts.

“You have separation anxiety‒”

“ _And you have abandonment issues!_ ” he blurts, his voice an octave higher than he’d like (mostly because he’s floundering for anything to get her to stop talking about what’s going on in his brain) but she ignores it, a smile quirking her lips for the briefest of seconds.

“And that’s understandable, normal even.  But you can let me in, Leo.  And, honestly, you _need_   to, because I can’t… I can’t do this if you aren’t going to.  A healthy relationship consists of both parties leaning on each other.  I trust you enough to be vulnerable with you, and I need you to be able to do the same.  If you’re going to demand that I let you in, then I’m going to demand that you let _me_   in.  I’ve gone out of my comfort zone for you.  If you can’t do the same for me, then this can’t ‒and won’t‒ work.”

“That’s because you’re braver than I am, Charlie,” he makes a split second decision to get off at the rapidly approaching exit.  He’d rather continue this conversation in a less hazardous driving environment.  “Bravery isn’t the absence of fear; it’s going on even though you’re terrified.  And you do that.  When you’re scared shitless, you keep going and pushing, and you don’t give up.  Me getting shot at and fighting and all of that is easy, it doesn’t scare me.  But when I _am_   scared, I run.  I want you and I to work, and you’re right, I need to let you in.  But that’s… hard for me, and it does scare me, and my instinct is to get out of the situation.  I’m trying, though, if there’s anything you’ve ever believed that’s come out of my mouth, let it be that.”

“I believe you, Leo,” she says, resisting the urge to once again lay her hand on his arm.  “As long as you’re trying, that’s enough.”

* * *

 

 

“Did you consider the possibility of a random attack?”

“What?” Leo looks up from his latest issue of _Guns and Ammo_.

“We assumed that there would be a target on my back, but did we take into account that somebody could randomly try to carjack the van or something?” Charlie turns her expectant gaze over to him.  They’d decided every four hours to pull into an abandoned parking lot for a period of time so as to limit the amount of times they’d have to stop for gas, deeming that more dangerous.  “The places we’ve been pulling into aren’t in the best neighborhoods, it’s a reasonable question.”

“You’re safe, Charlie,” he says, flipping his magazine closed.

“I just want‒”

“To reduce the amount of uncertainty as much as possible, I know,” he finishes in a patient voice.  “Yes, it’s possible somebody could decide it’s a good idea to break into a plain white van, because _tons_   of people choose vans to try to steal when the city’s crawling with sports cars.” At that, she rolls her eyes and gives him a look ‒though it doesn’t conceal her mild amusement.  “Nothing’s certain.  So, the best we can do is prepare for every possibility and outcome, which is what I did.”

“You must’ve been a great Boy Scout,” she smirks.

“I wasn’t a Boy Scout,” he replies with a tinge of disgust and appalment that she’d insinuate he was ever part of such a thing.

“Would it be so awful if you _had_   been a Boy Scout?”

“Yes.  Everything I know, I learned from my grandfather and the Army.  To suggest I learned my skillset because of the fucking _Boy Scouts_   is… is just _wrong_.”  In some ways, it’s the most passionate she’s ever heard him, at least, about something other than her or Will.

“Grandfather?” She questions, voice soft.

“Yeah,” Leo rubs a hand down his scruff.  “My father… wasn’t there.  He uh, drank.  So it was usually better if he wasn’t there.  When I was twelve, Pops finally got out of denial and kicked him out.”

“I hope he’s in jail,” is all she says, causing Leo to do a double take.

“Umm… what?”

She smiles somewhat self-consciously before explaining, “saying ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t actually helpful to someone who’s had something bad happen.” He supposes she would know ‒and he’s grateful she hadn’t gone all I’m-sorry‒that-awful-thing-happened-to-you gooey on him, because he’s certain he wouldn’t respond all that well.  Maybe she knows that, too, knows him…

“That’s true,” he says after a moment.  “I appreciate that,” he says somewhat awkwardly.

“No siblings?” She asks.

“Nope,” he replies, slowly breathing out in relief for the new topic.

“That’s probably for the best.  You wouldn’t do well with a sibling.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He asks, feigning annoyance.  This is good, he thinks.  They can do friendly banter.

“You’re not exactly a people person, Leo,” she says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“I’d have been an awful sibling,” he agrees.  “I like things the way I like them and I don’t like compromising.  We’d have just fought all the time.”

“Well that explains a lot, with us.”

“Charlie, please tell me you don’t… see me as a brother, because considering we’re‒”

“ _God_ , no!” she exclaims.  “I just meant that we fight a lot.  Multiple times a day, and… sometimes I wonder if we can really work.  If we’re already fighting this much, I mean… I’ve heard that the longer you’re together, the more you fight, and‒”

“We fight because we care,” he puts a hand on her arm to stop her rambling.  “Janice and I hardly fought; if we had a problem, we didn’t talk to each other.  We didn’t communicate.  And, we didn’t last.  What you and I do is healthy.”  She cocks her head, grinning.

“You have a big heart in there, somewhere,” she pokes at his chest.  “Buried under the grizzly bear, you have a heart.”

“Everyone has a heart, Charlie,” he says flippantly, and she can see she’s winding him up, but not in the we’re-going-to-fight kind of way.

“You know what I mean,” she presses, feeling almost giddy.  At that, he just grumbles.  “It’s just me, you know,” she says more seriously.  “I’m not going to judge you for being a human being and not a secret service agent.”

“Well right now, I need to be your secret service agent because you’re in danger.”

“Technically, I’m always in danger because at any given moment, someone is plotting to assassinate me‒”

“Why’d you have to say that?  Now I’m going to be even more paranoid‒”

“Leo, it’s _impossible_   for you to be more paranoid than you are now.  Besides, I’m sure you were already aware that I’m not the most popular politician and that some people would like to get me out of this office before my term is over through illegal means.”

“Well… _yeah_ , I knew that already but… just… don’t say things like that.”

“Alright, alright,” she waves her hands around in surrender.  “I’m serious, though,” she turns back to face him.  “You always tell me I don’t have to be the President with you, that I can just be Charlie… so, you can just be Leo with me.  To be honest, that’s what you’ve always been, to me, but…” she trails off, not quite sure how to finish her thought.

“You never did call me Agent Barnes,” his eyes glaze over thoughtfully as he recalls their first meeting.

* * *

 

 

_“Hello, Leo,” Charlie walks up to him, heels clicking on the floor._

_“Hi,” he replies somewhat stiffly, reaching out to her outstretched hand and shaking it.  She smiles warmly, but her hand is cool and dry, grip strong.  She’s not at all nervous about this meeting ‒that had to be moved up due to a security threat‒ nor is she intimidated by him.  Instead, he finds himself slightly unnerved by how blue her eyes are, at how they seem to pierce right into his soul._

_“Thank you for agreeing to meet sooner on such short notice,” she says, gesturing to the chair in front of her desk.  He sits down as she rounds the desk and sits in her swivel chair.  “And I do hope you don’t mind me calling you by your first name.  ‘Agent Barnes’ just sounds so formal, especially considering the amount of time we’re going to end up spending together… I figure it might make things easier to not have to say quite so many syllables.” She’s making a joke, trying to put him at ease.  He can see that ‒he’s not totally socially inept‒ but he’s not one for niceties and he’d really rather just cut to the chase._

_“If it’s all the same to you, Senator, I don’t mind saying a few more syllables.  You can call me Leo, but I’d prefer to address you by your given title.”_

_“Alright,” she nods slowly, apparently undeterred by his lack of social grace.  “Well,_ Leo _, it looks like we have a lot to discuss…”_

 

* * *

 

 

“Did you really not mind me calling you Leo?” She asks.  He shakes his head with a smile.

“I found it a bit odd, but then again, you’re not a normal, straightforward politician, so I guess I should have expected it.”

“Why did you insist on not calling me by my given name?”

“You were my employer.  It felt weird,” he shrugs.

“And now?” She asks quietly.

“Now is different, President,” he smirks.  She cocks her head and gives him her patented ‘I’m not amused’ looks, but he can see the sparkle in her eye.

“Should we get moving again?”

“Probably,” Leo replies, turning the key to start the ignition.

“I want to drive.”

“Not gonna happen,” he says, shifting into _drive_.

“Leo, you can’t drive for the next 48 hours.  I’m a great driver.”

“Nope.”

“I got us back from the range in one piece, didn’t I?”

He’s quit for a moment as he pulls onto the busy one way street that will take them back to the highway.

“Doesn’t mean you’re a good driver.”

“Leo!”

“Of all the things people have insulted you about, you’re most touchy about how good of a driver you are?” He’s both amused and incredulous ‒and feeling slightly guilty because, yes, Charlie is a good driver‒ but he can see her patience starting to wear thin.

“Is your plan to kidnap me and bring me to a bunker once I fall asleep?” She asks instead of replying to his comment.  She’s a human being, and while she generally has thick skin, sometimes the insults _do_   bother her.  Leo, however, doesn’t seem to know this, and she intends on keeping it that way.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie,” he decides he can probably check off ‘paranoia’ for his theory that she needs to actually deal with her problems.

Not that she will, not until he deals with his own issues, which she’s always too happy to point out when they argue.

“I’m not being ridiculous, Leo, it’s a perfectly valid question.”

“I’m not gonna bring you to a bunker,” he says with as much patience as he can muster.  “Not that I didn’t consider it, because I did, but then I decided it wasn’t worth you killing me once you found out.”

“That is _literally_ ‒ you considered kidnapping the President of the United States!?  Do you know how illegal that is!?” He’s never heard her like this, voice an octave higher than usual and practically yelling.

“I assumed that once you got over the urge to kill me, you’d realize it’d be in your best interest to pretend you’d come along willingly so I wouldn’t be fired and arrested.”

“You’re really that full of yourself?” She scoffs, jaw clenched in anger.  “It wouldn’t have been your decision to make‒”

“I let you decide, didn’t I?”

“You didn’t _let_   me do anything, Leo, I’m your boss.”

 _Right_.  Politician and former prosecutor.  He always forgets that, going into these arguments.

“The worst part of this is you know _exactly_   why I even considered doing it in the first place,” he says quietly, trying to bring this conversation back to a normal decibel before they get into a full-blown argument.  “Charlie, you _know_   that losing you is one of my… I can’t lose you. So I do everything I can to protect you, but that’s problematic because you don’t want to be protected.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to be,” she follows suit, taking a breath and calming down.  “It’s that you don’t agree with the way I want to be protected.  Your idea of protection is smothering, and I can’t work like that ‒I can’t _live_   like that.  I’m sorry if my actions cause you worry, but I’m not sorry for doing them.”

“I know,” he sighs.  “I know.  And you’ve been cooperative, which I appreciate.  And I’m trying, you know?”

“I know you are.  I know,” she repeats what he had said.  She suddenly has the urge to tell him that she loves him, and it scares her so much she nearly gasps.  They haven’t said the words to each other, not yet, really, and she thinks there’s a strong possibility he’ll bail from the moving armulance if she tries to now.

_“When you love someone, Leo, you give up little pieces of yourself to them, whether you mean to or not.”_

_“I promise that I’m never trying to take away any pieces of you, Charlie, because I love you just as you are.”_

They had come as close as they ever might to actually saying ‘I love you’.  She questions herself if it’s necessary, to say the words, because they both now how the other feels.  He _had_  said that part of his and Janice’s problem had been that they didn’t communicate.

“You’re quiet… you’re not usually quiet.  Did I… do something?” He sounds so hesitant ‒and she honestly thinks she hears a tinge of fear in his voice‒ that it snaps her back to reality, guilt washing over her once she realizes she’s making him nervous.

“No,” she says quickly. “I was just thinking.”

“Everything okay?  I didn’t mean to start another fight‒”

“You didn’t, Leo,” she assures him, but he frowns, thinking she still sounds far away, like her attention is still focused on something else.  “I just… can we stop for coffee?”

He’d also told her she’s brave because she doesn’t run from her fears.  She would like to call bullshit, because she’s terrified and running again.  Running away from the very real possibility that Leo won’t be able to commit, won’t be able to _be there_ , fully, with her.  She fights back a bitter laugh.

Her mother did always say she was a runner.

Little did Trisha Roan know that her young track star’s talent would later translate into an adulthood inability to deal with feelings of affection.


End file.
